


Hold my Hand

by jenny_wren



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-12 03:45:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 74,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5651362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenny_wren/pseuds/jenny_wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink meme - Matt is a slave bought by the Nelsons for an extremely low price. Slaves sold that cheaply are snuff-bait destined to be murdered for kicks by sexual sadists.</p><p>aka Matt is bought by Foggy and his life gets better than he could have imagined</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The actual prompt was 'Another slave AU, in which Foggy's mother bought Matt for him as a study aid at a horrifyingly low price (she haggles his price down to less than $1,000). There's a term for slaves sold that cheaply - snuff-bait, because it's legal to kill your slaves, no repercussions at all, and slaves that cost that little are often tortured to death by sexual sadists. Cue Matt torn between offering himself to his new owner to get it over with and trying frantically to prove his value in other ways.'
> 
> However this story doesn't quite fit the prompt and it is also almost entirely kink-free (unless you count h/c as a kink), so it's a bit of failure on those fronts.
> 
> Warning for previous non-con & underage.

Matt is sitting in his cage at the back of the shop. It’s not a bad cage as things go, tucked at the back under shelves of cleaning supplies. They make his nose itch but it’s better than being in one of the cages near the front stacked four deep. It means he’s less likely to be sold but there’s no point wasting prime selling space on a defective like him. He still appears in the catalogue and on the website. At the last shop they tried marketing him as a specialty but apparently if people want blind slaves, they want to blind them themselves. The shop owner had kicked him a few times in exasperation but then made the best of a bad job and sold him on to make up the numbers in a job lot.

He’s getting close to his eighteenth birthday at which point it becomes legal to put a slave down. Not, of course, that slaves don’t get killed before their eighteenth birthday but it’s kinda frowned upon and shops where it happens too often end up being picketed by the abolitionists which is bad for business.

Being put down isn’t the worse fate he can imagine so Matt isn’t particularly bothered about the encroaching date but lately he’s been thinking it might be fun to escape. He doubts he’d get far but the pleasure of getting this owner into trouble with the government-sponsored Slave Protectionists – it’s illegal to let a slave escape because they might hurt themselves away from their owner’s care, Matt has no idea how they passed that law with a straight face – would make it worth it. He wouldn’t have done it to his last owner, who was pretty decent all in all, but this one, yeah, if there’s a chance Matt can mess him up, he’s going to take it.

He’s not particularly bothered but he still notes the jaunty tring of the bell as a new customer enters. Two of them; one female, older, fluttery heart-beat, nervous, anticipatory; one male, older teenager, heartbeat flopping all over the place. The owner moves forward, heart upticking in excitement. The other slaves shift forward in interest because they think getting a read on a possible future owner will make things easier.

Matt goes back to his doze.

The poke in the arm makes him jump.

“Hey,” says the male customer.

“Can I help you, sir?” asks Matt politely because all the cages are wired to the mains, electric shocks hurt, and he doesn’t trust his current owner not to get curious about how many shocks it would take for Matt’s heart to stop.

“I’m Foggy. What’s your name?”

“What would you like it to be, sir?”

The teenager’s scent sours and Matt’s sorry for it. Previously it was fresh and amazingly free of slave-scent for a purchaser. Almost like sunshine, or as close to sunshine as Matt will ever feel again.

He moves his lips into a smile, “You can call me Matt.” He’d like to be called Matt again. Three owners ago they changed the name on his papers, Tristram is a stupid name.

“Matt,” says the teenager, brightening all over. “Why do you have a bandage over your eyes? Are you hurt?”

“My eyes don’t work and scare off potential purchasers.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, then, “Can I see?”

Matt shrugs. He’s not supposed to let anybody see his freaky gaze but this was a direct order. It’s one of those times he’s screwed whatever he does, so he does what he wants and wriggles the bandage up over his eyes.

“See,” he challenges, not sure what response he’s trying to provoke.

“That’s not scary at all.”

“I wouldn’t know.” 

“Guess you wouldn’t.”

At the other end of the shop the older woman, presumably his mother, they share the same warm scent, says as her voice grows louder in exasperation,

“And where has the dratted boy got to, Foggy?”

“I’m here Mom. I found the one I want.” And he hooks his fingers through the mesh of Matt’s cage.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh no, no,” protests the owner, “You were looking for a study aid. That one’s blind. It will be no good to you.”

“That’s silly,” says the teenager, “being blind has nothing to do with being able to study. Though I bet it means his memory is really good, right buddy?”

“Yes it is. And I know braille too,” Matt says for the pleasure of hearing the rush of anger in the owner. He’ll pay for it later but the satisfaction of actually being able to annoy the owner is too heady to pass up. Matt never claimed to be sensible.

“Mrs Nelson, you should see some of my more appropriate stock,” the owner’s doing a bad job of disguising his agitation at possibly losing the sale of one of the seriously expensive study aids. “We have some extremely well-trained options available, older and more responsible, that are already trained up to college level.”

Study aids are usually older than their masters because there is nothing like being twenty-four to enable someone to write a good essay for a first year college course. They are some of the most expensive slaves because it takes a lot of training to produce both intelligence and unquestioning obedience. Once you’re past that price bracket you’re into the one-offs for the seriously rich, personal pets sold at auction for stupendous prices. That’s way beyond the reach of this owner, though he does sort through each lot of slaves carefully for the most promising children to sell on to the more select training camps.

Matt really wishes his hearing wasn’t so good sometimes.

Mrs Nelson mutters something about seeing the catalogue. Her son says,

“But I want Matt.”

“Darling, consider for a moment. Come and look at the catalogue with me.”

“No, I want Matt.” There’s a brisk movement that Matt figures is the teenager folding his arms. He tries to guess if he’s pouting or glaring from the tone but can’t quite decide.

“See. Look here,” says the owner and there’s a flick of the glossy catalogue pages as he starts to point out the various options.

“It’s my graduation present,” the teenager strops, “I get to choose and I want Matt.”

Hearing his name again after so long, and spoken so vehemently, is doing funny things to Matt’s insides.

“Oh dear,” says the mother. “We’re going to get nowhere at this rate. How about you tell me how much this boy is, and I’ll come back later and chose a study aid without my son to distract me.”

“Mom!”

“Franklin P Nelson!”

“Sorry Mom.” He shuffles away from the adults, closer to Matt.

His mother turns to the owner, “Sorry where was I? Oh yes. This boy, where is he in the catalogue?”

“Here, but I really think you should look at our actual study aids.”

“mom please,” a soft whine.

“No I’m far too distracted right now. I will simply have to come back. Oh my, it says here five thousand dollars for that boy in the corner. That’s far too much. Come along Franklin. Perhaps it would be best if I sent your father to one of the auctions.”

“No, no madam,” says the owner quickly, “you don’t want to make an important purchase like a study aid at an auction. You need time to consider exactly what you need and to find the most appropriate slave. That catalogue is out of date, you should inspect our current stock.”

“That sounds better than viewing ones who have already been picked over. Am I able to book an appointment, maybe for an hour?”

“Absolutely, madam, I would be more than happy to assist. And that slave your boy has taken such a fancy to is two and a half thousand dollars, a much more reasonable price I’m sure you’ll agree?”

“Nonsense, I wouldn’t pay more than two hundred and fifty for such a whim. My son will get over it. Do you do trial runs? Where we can take them home and, uh, see how they fit in?”

“Certainly madam, for a small fee, of course. Though not for a disposable like the slave at the back. The chance of damages is far too high.”

The woman’s heart does a weird double-beat but she just says, “Naturally, naturally.”

“Though I would hate to disappoint the young gentleman, say one thousand five hundred.”

“Thank you but my son is not spoilt, he does not need such an expensive graduation gift. Five hundred would be much more reasonable.”

“Seven-fifty and you have a deal.”

“Done. Do you have a website, or an updates page, so I can monitor who is available?”

“Absolutely madam, please take my card all the details are on there. Would you like me to add you to our email circular?”

“Please do. Let me just write down my email address for you. Oh and here’s my card.”

It’s only when Matt hears the beep of the card machine that he realizes he has actually been sold.

That is - unexpected. He can feel his useless eyes blinking in reflexive surprise. How did that happen. He expected to die here in this cage. He staggers and trips when the assistant drags him out.

“Useless freak.”

Matt hasn’t stood upright since the last medical check over a month ago. He thinks he’s doing pretty good considering.

The teenager says, “Hey, hey, easy man, give him chance to get his balance. Here.” And then a solid shoulder is digging into Matt’s armpit holding him up. The pressure of the strong warm body against his side lights up all his nerve endings and leaves him woozy. He stands there drunk on the feeling of somebody else breathing.

The sale is quick, there’s no mandated warranty on slaves under two thousand dollars so the paperwork is little more than two signatures on the sale papers. The teenager is called over to sign the ownership papers and then there’s the purr of the scanner as they’re sent off to the Registry Bureau. Matt can’t feel it obviously, even with his senses, but his hand still goes to the chip lodged in the muscle just above his collar bone as if he can touch the electronic signal that’s changing the grip on his throat.

The teenager is excited, it’s bubbling through his heartbeat. “This is going to be so great, buddy,” he bounces as the cuffs around Matt’s wrists are clipped to his leash. Matt bites his lip to hide his wince at the static burn of the shock cuffs. They’re not supposed to hurt if you don’t struggle; Matt has no way to tell if that’s a straight up lie, or his senses messing him around. He’s sure as hell not asking anybody.

His purchase complete the mother stops to admire the study aids as they leave the shop. Matt can feel the eyes of the other slaves on him. Nobody exactly wants to be sold but this isn’t a place anybody wants to stay either. Usually being in a trader’s hands is a bit of a respite because they want to keep their merchandise in good condition, but this owner was in it for the kicks more than the money. Being sold is at least different, and there’s always the sharp little hope that the new place is looking for a cog in a machine and not a punching bag

Their jealous gazes burn his skin and one of them hisses,

“Snuff-bait.”

Oh, and now Matt knows exactly why he’s been sold.


	3. Chapter 3

He follows along meekly as they lead him out the shopping mall. It’s not even a surprise being snuff-bait, those slaves who are sold so cheap their owners have no qualms torturing them to death for kicks. Nobody’s wanted to keep Matt for anything else, it makes sense this one bit of value would be squeezed out of him.

Deep inside him something is flickering to life at the idea of snuff-bait but, beaten down so often, it’s only the tiniest flame. He thinks he should be a lot more scared than he is but there’s a disconnect in his brain that means the terror just isn’t getting through.

So he stumbles along after the new owner and the owner’s mother until the owner says, “This is stupid. Come here.”

Matt stays still. The owner shifts around him and then his hand is looping through Matt’s chained arms. The contact makes him flinch and he freezes icy cold. The hand comes to rest in the crook of his elbow.

“Better. Okay let’s go. We’ll be crossing the road in about, I dunno, six paces? Man, I’m going to have to get better at this.”

It’s only then Matt realizes the new owner is trying to guide him. Which is weird, half the fun of having a blind slave is watching them trip over stuff. Given his price, he wouldn’t have been shocked if they let him walk out into the traffic just to see how long he lasted. Being guided though, that is a shock.

“Mom, he’s not walking so good.”

“Probably not. Oh dear, I hadn’t thought this through at all. We can’t walk home like this, what will the neighbors think. Stay here while I call a cab.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, we just saved enough money that we can definitely afford it.” The mother moves away leaving Matt standing there with her son.

“You okay?”

Matt startles and tries to pretend he didn’t. “I’m fine, sir.”

“No, you gotta stop with this sir stuff, my name is Foggy.”

“Foggy,” Matt parrots obediently, wondering exactly how long that will last.

“And you’re Matt, right? Cause your papers said Tristam.”

“Four,” no that’s wrong, he has another owner now, “Five owners ago they changed my name.”

“They can do that?”

“Sure. Miss Kendra didn’t think Matt was distinguished enough. She called me Tristram because it was tragic and romantic.”

“He was the guy who fell in love with the wrong girl because they got drugged?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s not tragic or romantic, just stupid.”

“I know.” Miss Kendra thought being blind was tragic and romantic too. She thought Matt was a wounded soul. Miss Kendra hadn’t been so bad, but she told her father all about Matt’s romantic wounded soul and her father beat all the skin off Matt’s back and then he was sold on to Miss Evangeline. Miss Kendra was stupid.

“Matt’s a way better name. Do you want me to change it back on the papers?”

Matt shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t figure it makes much difference any which way. He hears a car pull up and the owner shift.

“Here’s my mom. Careful now.” A hand tucks around Matt’s head to make sure he doesn’t scrape it on the door.

“I can do it.” He doesn’t need all this fake-care, it’s making his skin itch. He settles in the seat as far away as he can manage.

“Sure but you’ve got those nasty wrist cuff things on.” The owner follows Matt across the back seat completely destroying his attempt at distance. “Let me get them off.”

“Not in my cab,” growls the taxi driver. “Not having any damn lobots loose in my cab.”

“You can’t call him that,” objects the owner.

A bubble of laughter pops inside him and before he can think it through, he says, 

“Like slave is so much better,” because seriously being called a lobotomized robot is hardly worse than being called a slave when you get down to brass tacks and it’s definitely better than pet. Miss Evangeline regularly lectured her friends on using inappropriate language to refer to her precious pets. Matt kinda hated Miss Evangeline.

“Uh,” the owner gulps a couple of times and his heart speeds up.

“Sorry sir,” Matt ducks the expected retaliation, not entirely sure how he betrayed himself so badly.

He can’t sense any attempt to strike him, all he can hear is the rustle of hair from a shake of the head, and the owner says, “I told you, call me Foggy.”

“Foggy.” He waits for the mother to slap him down, but judging by her steady heartbeat she hasn’t noticed.

The owner starts to tell him about the street they are driving down, the location of his father’s store, and the best place to buy hot chocolate. Matt listens helplessly while his skin prickles all over as if it had pins and needles from being cold too long.


	4. Chapter 4

The cab drive doesn’t actually take that long, Matt isn’t even sure if they’ve actually left Hell’s Kitchen. The street that he gets out onto is busier than he expected with a loud press of heartbeats.

The owner’s arm is back around his waist guiding him away from the cab, across a thin strip of sidewalk, and through a door into a hallway too narrow to walk side by side. Linoleum squeaks beneath his feet and then he’s being directed up a wooden set of stairs.

“Keep going,” says the owner, “I’ll tell when you get to the top.”

Matt checks the first few steps but there really are a lot of them and he’s too tired to do more than trudge up the stairs.

“You’re at the top,” says the owner, just as Matt takes a final step and comes down too hard because there’s no step. He staggers but a hand catches at the back of his jump suit and he doesn’t fall.

“Sorry, sorry. God I’m awful at this. I’ll get better I promise.”

Matt can’t understand the words because they make no sense.

“You okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

There doesn’t seem to be a good answer to that. Matt shrinks down and hopes they’ll forget about him soon. Fortunately another heartbeat arrives, with the solid presence of an adult male.

“What have we here?”

“Hey Dad,” says the owner. “This is Matt.”

“Franklin, why is he wearing a blindfold?” The man sounds angry. Matt tries to sidle away, but the room is surprisingly small and there’s nowhere to go.

“Matt’s blind. They had his eyes bandaged in the shop and I didn’t want to just take it away. It seemed mean. Maybe we can get him some sunglasses?”

“And a white cane. And who knows what else. Foggy, we don’t have the money for this.”

“Mom said it was okay.”

“Anna,” the man remonstrates.

Matt’s arm is grabbed and he only just stops himself from flinching away from the sudden contact.

“Quick, come on buddy. Mom will talk him round.”

Matt allows himself to be towed from one small room to another. The house is tiny. It smells of cooking and people and warmth. There’s no marble, cold space, or the sharp scent of antiseptic they use in slave quarters.

“You can sit down,” says the owner. Matt edges for the wall so he’ll be out of the way, he doesn’t want to be tripped over. There’s a sharp smack of a hand against soft flesh. For a disassociating moment Matt wonders why he can’t feel the sting, then he realizes he’s not the one that’s been struck.

“God, I’m such a moron,” says the owner. “I just smacked myself in the face by the way. I promise I’ll do better. Here, let me show you to a chair.” The hand on his arm is careful as he’s helped towards a soft cushioned seat. 

It’s cruel to be so gentle while setting him up to be beaten. Slaves do not belong on the furniture, not unless they’re being displayed somehow. And squishy, comfy furniture like this is so different from being strapped to one of Miss Evangeline’s tables they shouldn’t even be called the same thing.

Matt can’t do anything about it though. So he decides to enjoy the comfort as much as he can before retribution strikes.

“Would you like a drink? We have juice or water or milk?”

That’s definitely a trick question. Matt’s proud of himself for saying, “Water please,” because he’s not going to get caught asking for milk or juice. 

Then he hears the delight in the owner’s voice when he says, “Okay then,” and realizes the whole thing was a trick and he shouldn’t have asked for anything. Matt can be so stupid sometimes.

Liquid glugs against glass, and then the glass is pressed against his hand. Confusingly it actually smells like water. Matt takes it, and knowing he has no choice braces himself to drink it. 

It tastes just like water. Matt doesn’t understand. Maybe being outside after being caged so long is messing with his senses.

“Hey easy, slow down you’ll choke yourself. It’ll be easier if I get those stupid cuffs off. Here give me the glass back. Alright. Now the cuffs.”

Clumsy hands shove at the locking mechanism of the cuffs, grinding their edges against the think skin of his wrists. Matt grits his teeth and casts his hearing wider to distract himself. The two adults are arguing.

“What were you thinking?” the man demands.

“I never thought Foggy needed a slave in the first place. Rosalind was the one who insisted he wouldn’t be able to mix in the best circles without one. So, there we go, Foggy can now impress with the best.”

“I’m not sure how impressive a blind slave is.”

“He’s a slave isn’t he? That’s what Rosalind wanted. And he was so cheap it was almost a miracle. We can put the rest of Rosalind’s money into Foggy’s college fund. She could stand to help a little with that, you know, instead of insisting on buying slaves Foggy doesn’t even need.”

“Anna,” the man groans.

“Sorry my heart, I’ll shut up.” They kiss, sticky and wet. When the woman speaks again her voice is light,

“Look at this way. Rosalind gave us the money to buy Foggy a slave as gift for his high school graduation and Foggy chose Matt. Simple as that. And it would have been absurd to waste all that money, given what Foggy is going to use him for.”

This is not something Matt wants to hear discussed. He abruptly stops listening, burrowing his hearing down to the tight thump of his heartbeat.


	5. Chapter 5

The tap on his arm startles him and Matt hastily refocuses. It’s easy to turn his head in the right direction so it at least appears as if he’s looking at his owner and he tilts his head to one side to make sure it looks like he’s paying attention. The owner at the first store Matt had been sent to had taught him that trick. He’d been mad because owners always got mad when they thought you weren’t paying attention to them, and Matt’s gaze is always off-center no matter how hard he tries. 

But then Mr Sheridan stopped being mad. He told Matt it wasn’t his fault he was defective and he’d think of a way around it. And Mr Sheridan had, he’d told Matt about the head-tilt trick and when Matt got it right he gave him chocolate and a pat on the head,

The chocolate hadn’t tasted as nice as Matt remembered but Mr Sheridan was still his favorite store owner.

Jerking sharply at a second tap of his arm, he hisses as his wrists scrape against the cuffs.

“Are you okay?”

Faced with a direct question, Matt went for a diversion, “Your parents were angry.”

“Don’t worry about it. They get mad sometimes but they never get like _super_ mad. Of course my mother is involved which always makes them extra cross. My biological mother, I mean, Rosalind. Mom is my real mother. Mom hates Rosalind but I have to be polite to her anyway.”

Matt tilts his head.

“Rosalind insisted I’d need to get a slave as a study aid if I was ever going to be good enough to get through Columbia without disgracing myself entirely,” the way the inflexion of his voice changes suggests he is quoting someone. 

There are no more words for a long moment and he shifts awkwardly, then narrates, “I just shrugged,” but it doesn’t sound like a shrug to Matt, it’s too unhappy for that. 

He shifts again, still not a shrug but better.

“Anyway,” his arm swings around in wide flourish that might have distracted Matt if he couldn’t hear how his heartbeat was still too fast, “Mom got really mad. She said I got into Columbia on my own merits and I’d graduate on my own merits too and that if I used the study aid for anything other than brewing coffee she was going to finally learn how to cut a switch. Uh, not that she ever would or anything it’s just something she says. Mom never stays mad.”

“She sounds nice,” says Matt because people like compliments about their mother’s, usually anyway. Miss Evangeline hated her mother. But Matt felt safe in assuming this owner liked his mother.

“Yeah, she’s the best. So when Rosalind insisted I needed to be able to show-off, she and Dad agreed to let me have a, is there a good word for slave?”

That question is absurd. Matt tries to keep exactly how absurd he finds it off his face. “Not that I am aware of.”

“There a word you prefer?”

“Slave is,” Matt stalls out because he can’t bring himself to say fine, “the truth.”

“Okay then. So Mom agreed, and I was pretty stoked. I feel kinda bad about that now.”

Matt clenches his teeth tightly to keep back the sarcasm that wants to spill out. For some reason the dark swirl of emotion that’s usually stuffed way down inside him is bubbling dangerously close to the surface of his skin. His fingers flex into claws against the muscle of his thighs.

“And I know it’s dumb to think you can buy a best friend, but you know, _friends_ , friends isn’t impossible, is it?”

Matt thinks about it for a second. Obviously he’s very aware you can buy slaves, but he knows you can buy people too. Miss Kendra’s father liked to gloat about the people he bought. And Miss Evangeline, she spent lots of money and lots of people she called friends came to her parties. Of course Miss Evangeline didn’t know what they said about her behind her back. Matt did though, the knowledge had made him hot and giddy, a little curl of power in the pit of his stomach.

Still Miss Evangeline had friends bought with her wine and her dinners and her pretty pets she strapped to the tables for after-dinner entertainment.

“Friends would be possible.” Matt tries to swallow down the growl his throat at his torment being used to purchase friendship again.

“Good. Great. Greatness.”

The fizzing happiness in front of him makes Matt want to spit.

He tenses as the adult walk about into the room. Their pulses are still thrumming with residual anger although their breathing is calm.

“Mom, can you come help? I can’t get these cuffs off Matt’s wrists.”

“I think that’s a job for you, Edward,” says the woman, then, “Oh how rude of me. Matt, this is my husband Edward and I’m Anna.”

Matt’s not that stupid, he smiles politely and says, “Yes ma’am.”

“Hey,” says the man, “I’m not having any of that sir’ing sh-stuff in my own house. Edward, Anna,”

“He’s pointing at Mom,” the boy whispers helpfully. There’s a small tussle, and a grumbled, “Da-ad.”

The man laughs, “And the too smart for his own good one is Foggy.”

Matt decides he’s too tired to play their games. If they want him to give them a reason to punish him, well fine,

“Edward, Anna, Foggy,” he repeats just short of snapping.

“That’s better son.”

Scalding rage pours over Matt. He is not his son. He is the son of Battlin’ Jack. He is the son of Father Lantom who kept visiting him even after they made Matt a slave until Matt was sold away. This man, this Edward, does not get to call him son. 

Except of course he does, he can call Matt whatever he likes.

Matt’s shaking when two large hands close around his wrists. “Easy there. Let’s get these off you.”

“Thanks Dad,” says the boy, Foggy.

“Huh. I can see why you got stuck. These are like child-proof caps times ten. I don’t see how I’m supposed to get these off without scraping all the skin off his wrists.”

“I know.”

“They must be broken. Alright, Matt you just keep calm we’ll get you out don’t worry.”

Matt is calm. He’s still shaking but he’s perfectly calm. 

“Foggy, come hold the cuffs still for me.” Another presence leans into Matt and hands grab at him. “Yes, like that. Now steady. Okay got it.” 

There’s a loud click, then another, and the cuffs fall away. Matt flexes his hands in surprise. They’ve never come off before without leaving the heat of bruises under his skin.

“Ouch,” says Foggy, “may I?”

Matt nods without thinking, still flexing his hands in confusion. A finger gently traces the electric sting left by the cuffs. For a moment Matt thinks they must share the same delicate sense of touch to pick up the burn, then realizes it must have left a visible mark.

“Mom? Those stupid cuffs have hurt Matt’s wrists.”

Yet another hand grabs at his wrists. Matt manages to contain his flinch. All the attention is making him twitchy. He’s used to people’s eyes skating over him, or at least only seeing a slave without ever seeing him. The only time anyone really pays attention to him is when they want what it takes to make him scream. 

But this doesn’t feel like that, it seems weirdly personal somehow. It must be the way they keep calling him Matt.

He thinks he’d prefer boy, or even Tristam. Annoyed he wishes he’d never told Foggy his name. It’s too late now. Letting them know it’s affecting him will only mean they keep doing it, or maybe only using it occasionally, slyly, to hurt.

“Foggy, run and fetch me the burn cream. Those cuffs are definitely broken. Matt you should have said something, your wrists look dreadful.”

Matt has the absurd impulse to say, _I’m sorry your stupid cuffs have damaged the merchandise_. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. The cool cream eases the sting left from the cuffs, it’s almost worth being the focus of their attention.

“Show Matt your room, Foggy, and find him something else to put on. He can’t keep wearing that ridiculous jump suit, he looks like a delinquent.”

The next hour just increases Matt’s confusion to stumbling point. Foggy directs him up another flight of steps to the third floor where the bathroom and his and his sister’s rooms are,

“Candace has gone to Hudson Valley for a week with her best friend. You’ll want to avoid her room she hates me even breathing too close. There’s another flight of stairs here, they go up to my parents’ room. We don’t go up there.”

“Sure.”

“And this is my room. It’s uh, normal size I guess, with a bed and a wardrobe and – stuff. Here’s the bed.” He practically shoves Matt down to sit on the bed, and leaves him there. Boards creak under his feet as he hurries across the room, then the scrape of wood against wood and the soft flump of clothes.

“Okay sweat pants, and a hoodie. You mind blue?”

“No.”

“Wait, do you know blue? Am I being stupid?”

“I could see until I was nine. I know blue.” Matt pokes at himself unable to believe the words came out of mouth. He feels like dissolving, the same as when he first lost his sight and he felt spaced out and unreal because he couldn’t see himself anymore and it was as if he no longer existed. Why did he volunteer information like that? He never has before – but then nobody has ever asked before.

“Do you like blue?”

Matt grits his teeth against the strange impulse for truth, but what the hell does it matter. He can’t see, he won’t be able to tell either way.

“I like red.”

“Cool. I’ve only got grey sweat pants but I can find you a red hoodie.” More flumping clothes. “Here.” The soft material rubs against Matt’s hand and he grabs hold and places it on the bed beside him.

Now the hard part. Under the boy’s invasive stare he starts to undo the jump suit pulling it off his shoulders and leaving himself exposed.

“Ouch, that suit’s rough on you, huh? Looks like it scraped you raw.”

Matt shrugs his shoulders, he’s adjusted to the frantic urge to scratch until he bleeds, forgotten what it is not to feel uncomfortable in his own skin. 

He’s waiting. 

Concentration fully-focused on the other boy, he’s waiting for the hard stare to become painful touches, for a body shoving too close to his, for the heavy suffocating invasion of flesh. Sure, the boy obviously has plans for him but he’s hardly going to skip the opportunity for some fun in the meantime. And if Matt is fun enough the plans might be but off for a while.

The weird sense of dislocation is good because otherwise Matt thinks he might be screaming.

There’s no movement from the boy.

Matt would pull on the hoodie for cover but it feels so sinfully soft he wants to save it’s comfort for later.

He wriggles further out the suit.

The flinch from the boy has him flinching too. His senses tell him the boy is retreating which can’t be true, so he must be spinning out worse than he thought.

“No underwear, huh.” There’s a scrabbling sound and then two soft whumps, one landing on the bed, one bouncing off Matt’s arm. “Socks and underwear,” says the boy as Matt sits there frozen. After a moment he can hear the flick of pages. The boy is reading.

No longer being watched, Matt manages a shaky breath. Not sure what’s going on, he peels the jump suit off and dresses himself quickly, hands fumbling as they deal with unfamiliar clothing. Finished, he sit there for a few moments, but the boy keeps on reading until Matt says,

“Done.”

“Okay great,” the boy jumps to his feet. “Let me show you round the apartment so you can get things straight. Tell me if I go too fast.”

Foggy shows him around carefully, pointing out the doors, and the rugs, and the light switches with careful concern. When he shows him the light switch in the kitchen, his mother says,

“Foggy, why are you showing Matt where the light switches are?”

“Because he can’t see them.”

“Yes he can’t see, so why would he ever need to use a light switch?”

Foggy is silent as his mother laughs softly. He hustles Matt away, hissing, “You could have said something, you jerk.”

“Sorry,” Matt hunches away from the anger.

“Guess you were too busy laughing at me being an idiot.” 

“No,” Matt protests, because now Foggy sounds upset and he doesn’t like that, “I, it was nice. Being shown around. Most people don’t bother and then get mad when I trip over something.” 

“That’s just wrong. So you didn’t think I was being stupid?”

Sometimes he would get a brief description but usually there would be no context. If Matt didn’t have his senses he’d probably be dead from falling down stairs nobody had bothered to mention. As Foggy had got used to the idea his descriptions had gradually expanded to include helpful things like ‘two steps in on the left’ and ‘on the right about four paces from the door’.

No Matt does not think Foggy is being stupid, except in how much he is catering to his defective slave.

“You give the best directions,” he says because he thinks it will please and because it is true.

“Oh,” Foggy bounces. “Cool. But you have to tell me if I’m doing something wrong, otherwise I won’t know.”

Matt nods but has no intention of saying anything.

“Good. Tomorrow I’ll show you around the shop.”

“The shop?” Matt asks betrayed into a question by Foggy’s general informality.

“My dad’s shop. I told you, he runs a hardware store. It’s on the first floor. He keeps a load of inventory in the box room though, so I spend a lot of time running up and downstairs with stuff. I thought you could help with that.”

“I still can. I can be useful.” Matt can be so, so useful. “I just need to know how many stairs there are and I can run up and down all day.”

“Duh. Of course knowing how many stairs there are would help, I’ll count them for you.” He actually starts to jog down the stairs counting as he goes. Matt moves to follow him but he says,

“No you stay there, I don’t want you tripping up because you don’t know how many steps there are.”

Matt is perfectly capable of counting steps for himself. He could manage that even without his senses. He is completely flummoxed on how to deal with his owner doing it for him.

The call to dinner is welcome because at least it makes it stop.


	6. Chapter 6

Matt had only attended meals when he was owned by Miss Kendra’s father. When Mr Robert had guests he liked to have all his slaves on display. Mostly it was only boring, which Matt didn’t mind at all, but the rich smell of food you could never eat was a physical ache. 

He doesn’t expect dinner now to be any different and is rather looking forward to the peace of boring. The problems start when he goes to kneel at Foggy’s feet.

“Whoa. No.” Hands grab him hauling him back upright.

Matt doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. He freezes in place waiting for direction.

“Buddy, you completely missed the chair. You’ve been doing great too. You must be getting tired. Here.”

His hand is forcibly placed on the back of a chair.

“There we go.”

Hands nudge at him and before Matt knows where he is he’s sitting on the chair, table in front of him. Matt is sitting at the kitchen table just as if he belongs there. This he understands. Miss Kendra did this once, used slaves to challenge her father. She had ordered eight of them to sit at the table in the formal dining room.

“See Daddy, they are capable of eating like gentleman.”

“Oh really,” said Mr Robert, too calmly. 

There had been soup first and Matt had choked it down, the terrified heart beats of his fellow slaves thrumming in his ears. Then when the main meal was served, Mr Robert’d had time to prepare his little surprise. Mr Robert order the food served on the fanciest plates. Mr Robert ordered them to lay out the fancy silver cutlery. Mr Robert ordered them to heat the silver cutlery until it glowed.

“Now _gentlemen_ ,” said Mr Robert, “I want you to eat every bite.”

Matt cautiously reached out. The heat from the fork was so great that to his confused senses it appeared twice its actual size. Beside Matt, Jimmy tentatively touched his knife, and jerked his hand away so fast he almost fell off his chair.

Mr Robert laughed out loud.

Across the table, Dan took a deep breath and scooped up some of the dinner with his fingers. Mr Robert slapped his hand down.

“No. Eating with your hands is hardly gentlemanly.”

Dan took another breath and bent his head, twisting his neck awkwardly so he could eat the food directly off the plate.

Mr Robert laughed and didn’t stop him this time. Around the table the slaves took their cue and started to duck their heads and lick up the food.

“What do you think of your fine gentlemen now, Kendra?”

Miss Kendra giggled. “They’re disgusting.”

Matt was so furious he thought he might be glowing with it like the silver. 

Setting his jaw, Matt had picked up the knife and fork. The pain twisted through him like a living current, but Matt waited it out, knowing his over-stressed brain would eventually compensate and it would dull to bearable. He scooped up a forkful of something and slid it carefully into his mouth and swallowed it down. He couldn’t taste anything over the feel of his lip puffing up in a blister where he caught it with the tine of his fork.

Matt managed only one more forkful before his body utterly rebelled and he slid off the chair in a dead faint.

Mr Robert thought it was hilarious but he started liking Matt after that. When Matt’s burns became infected he actually paid for a doctor instead of a slave-vet to come out and prescribe antibiotics.

Of course Mr Robert changed his mind about Matt in the end. That hadn’t been a surprise.

Worse than that memory though is that this table, in a warm kitchen instead of a cool dining room, pans bubbling on the hob, air thick with steam and the taste of salt, is stirring up memories of before, before they cuffed his wrists and chipped his neck, back when he was Matty.

Shaking with effort he forces the old memories down and concentrates on the recalling the sensation of his skin growing numb beneath the scorching metal.

So he’s ready for it when Mrs Anna turns around and just stares at him for long moment and he uses the time to brace himself so when she swoops down on him he doesn’t flinch or cringe. She squeezes him tight and runs her hand over the top of his head,

“My little treasure,” Mrs Anna coos. “You look so small in Foggy’s clothes. We need to feed you up.” She leans over and picks something off the table and hands it to him, “Here.”

Matt quickly cups his hand around the warm damp meat before he can drop it. It’s soft and slightly crumbly: chicken. Mrs Anna has handed him a slice of chicken.

“Better eat it,” advises Foggy, “or Mom will get mad.”

Still not understanding, but grateful for such a clear instruction. Matt quickly eats the chicken.

“Slow down,” says Mr Edward and Matt jumps because he hadn’t heard him walk into the room. He needs to be paying attention to his surroundings, not licking around his mouth with his tongue for the last traces of chicken.

Mrs Anna opens the fridge, Matt can hear the door squeak and the cool draft of air. Liquid glugs and then she’s pressing his hand around the glass.

“Drink this, you need the vitamins.”

It’s sharp and raw, rough as razor blades. Matt drinks it quickly. It’s only when he’s finished and the burn has faded that he realizes it was orange juice. He used to like orange juice. 

He can feel the juice curling through him as the plates clunk down on the table. Foggy turns the plate in front of Matt and says,

“There’s chicken on the left, potatoes on the right, peas and carrots at the bottom and gravy over everything.”

“Thank you,” says Matt dumbly. His dad used to – . Matt concentrates his full attention on his plate and eats determinedly. Mouthful after mouthful. He’d like to appreciate the food, it’s his first not-slave meal he’s had since he burned blisters onto his hands, but his throat doesn’t seem to want to swallow it down. He’s choked, his eyes and nose clogged, his stomach churns uneasily, then cramps sharply.

Knife and fork clatter to the ground as he doubles over.

“Matt?” Foggy grabs his arms and Matt is suddenly grateful for the touch, it helps stabilize the swirling room.

“Bathroom,” he gasps. Pulling away he staggers, tripping and scrabbling using one hand for support as he presses the other against his mouth to try and hold down the roiling mess.

The next hour-long minutes are purely miserable as his body rejects the too-rich food. Hands hold him up and Matt can’t pull away because he’ll collapse without their support. His shaking body is too hot and too cold all at once. He thinks there might be words but his body is too scrambled to interpret them and he only feels them like bruises against his skin.

Then his wrists are caught tightly and he’s stripped to his skin. Sticky with sweat and shivering he’s tipped into an ice cold bath tub and the shower clicks on.

He whimpers in expectation of the freezing spray but the water is softly tepid. He turns his head into the flow, and it feels like a hand stroking across his face. His limbs, weak and floppy, refuse to obey his commands. Another body settles behind his and he’s pulled up so he’s sitting with his back resting against a chest, arms wrapped around waist, hands a soothing pressure against his still twisted stomach. A gentle voice in his ear,

“Please, please stop crying.”

He licks his lips, enjoying the taste of the water and the drip of moisture down his aching throat. A hand curves around his, curling his hand around a plastic beaker and helping him lift it to his mouth. It’s water but it tastes funny, salty-sweet. Matt’s too thirsty not to drink it and he feels better when he’s finished.

Soap explodes across his tongue and over his skin. It drenches his hair and drips down his face. Then more water until the scent of soap fades away. Hauled out of bath, he whines as a towel rasps across the skin. His body comes back to him a little and he’s still gone enough that he fights when the hands reach too low.

“Easy, easy.” He’s bundled into a robe and then into bed, a solid square of heat pressed against his aching stomach.

When a voice says, “Get some sleep son,” Matt’s so turned inside out that he smiles and says,

“Thanks Dad.”


	7. Chapter 7

Matt wakes up seeing his father’s face. As he gasps and opens his eyes to darkness the image fades to shadows but the memory of how he felt under his father’s eyes remains.

He sits up, tattered remnants of his dream still curling around him. His hand drifts to his neck, just above his collar bone, and his fingers trace the lump of his chip. It’s still there.

He didn’t really think it wasn’t, not like in the early days when he used to wake up gasping convinced his father was back and the nightmare was over. The chip is no longer a symbol of everything that’s wrong but a simple fact. Just like the nuns told them, Matt has finally come to accept his assigned place in life.

Matt hates it. He hugs his knees to his chest and tries to pull back the sensation of his father’s gaze, even after he lost his sight he could still feel the warmth. It was nothing like the cold inspection of his owners that strips him down to nothing.

The sounds of the house are too loud for him to keep ignoring though, battering past his defenses. Mrs Anna is singing as she scrubs pots in a sink of hot water. Foggy is reading, huffing under his breath and flicking the pages back and forth as he struggles for comprehension. Mr Edward is talking about tap washers and when Matt’s hearing extends he can pick up multiple heartbeats on the ground floor. They must be customers. He thinks Foggy said his father sold hardware and Matt can smell paint, metal and grease.

It’s then Matt realizes he’s sitting on a mattress in bed. That makes no sense and even though he can feel the squidge of the mattress and hear the creak of the bed, he actually pats around his surroundings with the nervous questing fingers of a feeble cripple in a way he hasn’t since Stick trained him out of the habit with sharp flicks of his cane. 

The facts stay the same. He is in bed. What he can’t work out is why. Last night was, well Matt could hardly have been more disgusting. If they were too concerned about the mess to sling him into slave quarters – Foggy hadn’t shown him but he could smell the small room full of dust and dirt that must be where he would sleep – then Matt had already been in the bath. They could have left him there.

Matt rubs his aching head. Hopefully they’ll get bored of whatever game their playing soon. He wriggles out of bed, finds the wall with his right hand and follows it to the door and then turns in the direction of the singing.

Still not fully back to himself, he forgets about the stairs until he’s already stumbling. Memory and reflexes come together in a rush and he catches himself, pivoting in place so he falls up instead of down, banging into the wall instead of crashing to the floor.

Two heartbeats jump.

“What’s happened?” Mrs Anna rushes out of the kitchen, towel clutched in her hands.

“Oh man, are you okay?” asks Foggy, appearing out of the front room.

Matt flushes at his clumsiness, “I’m fine.”

Mrs Anna sighs.

“I can do better,” Matt promises. “I will do better.” He’s still shaky after the night before, he feels hollowed out and empty.

“You must be hungry,” says Mrs Anna.

Matt rubs his hand across his face because he’s worried about his expression might show at the thought of more food curdling inside him.

“I am so sorry about last night. I called the Slave Protection Helpline and they explained how wrong it was to feed you like that. We’ll go out today and get you some more appropriate food from Slaves at Home.”

He has to give her points for managing to construct such an unarguable case for feeding him kibble. She doesn’t want to, but since Matt can’t eat normal food, obviously he has to eat slave kibble.

Matt ducks his head presses his hands close to his sides to hide their twitching.

“For now though I made you some broth. Foggy help him get changed while I heat it up.”

Foggy escorts Matt back to his room, hands him a heap of clothes and then retreats to wait outside. Matt can hear him breathing. It doesn’t feel intrusive though, the door is closed and Matt isn’t being watched.

He waits a few moments and, when nothing else happens, he gets dressed, and nothing else happens, so he walks back out the room. Foggy offers him his arm.

“I just offered you my arm,” he narrates. “It seems mean to keep grabbing at you.”

“Thank you.” He nearly means that and it’s messing with his mind. Tentatively he reaches up and rests his hand on Foggy’s arm. He’s not quite shocked when he’s gently guided, with a warning about the ten stairs, to the kitchen.

Matt’s going to go insane before this is over.

In the kitchen Mrs Anna holds out a mug of broth and it smells amazing, just chicken, salt and pepper. Matt’s reaching for it before he thinks it through, but Mrs Anna simply passes him the mug, her hand gentle against his until she’s sure he has it safely. Matt drinks it slowly, savoring the taste and the way the warmth curls through his body.

It’s going to make the kibble taste that much worse, but an opportunity like this isn’t going to come along again so he’ll appreciate it while he has the chance.

“That’s put the color back in your cheeks,” says Mrs Anna with satisfaction.

After that they leave, Foggy still providing careful directions. Matt is dressed head to toe in Foggy’s clothes, he’s even borrowing a pair of shoes. He must look like a real person. He’s not sure how to deal with that.

Slaves at Home sells everything you need to keep your slaves protected and in order. It smells of slaves and tack rooms. The scent of antiseptic mixed with metal from the cuffs and leather from the whips is unmistakable. Matt’s woozy with it.

“Oh dear,” frets Mrs Anna, “I shouldn’t have made you walk so far. Still, we’re here now, we’ll find you something nice to eat.” She sounds a bit doubtful. Matt is doubtful too.

Mrs Anna pauses at the door, her heart beating hard, then she squares her shoulders and her breathing drops low and regular.

“Come on boys,” she strides briskly through the door.

There are shelves and shelves of vacuum-packed kibble. Matt can just about smell it past the metallic sheen of the packing.

“So which one do you like?” asks Mrs Anna.

Matt doesn’t say anything. His favorites are the ones with cranberry for urinary tract health, even the slave processing plants can’t quite remove the tart sweetness of the cranberries.

He’s not going to say he _likes_ any of them though. Because he doesn’t.

“Oh dear,” moans Mrs Anna, “Edward was right, I didn’t think this through at all.”

“Can I help you madam?” says a cheerful assistant.

“Yes please.” Mrs Anna straightens her spine. “Which of these options taste the best?”

“Oh no madam,” the assistant sounds horrified, “you can’t let a slave be picky, they have to eat what you give them.”

“Obviously,” says Mrs Anna. There’s something off in her tone, it doesn’t sound quite genuine. It was like that in the slave trader’s store too, as if her spine is so stiff she can’t speak naturally. “I meant which was the healthiest.”

“We have many healthy options, madam,” the assistant is back to cheerful. “The best is probably St Johns. One hundred percent organic with added cod liver oil to promote suppleness and vitality.”

Matt maybe winces a little. Cod liver oil is his least favorite. The taste lingers for hours.

Mrs Anna pokes at the indicated packet. “Do you have a sample we could test?”

“We have a variety of sample packs. Were you particularly interested in the St Johns?”

“Yes if that’s the best.” Mrs Anna pokes the packet again. “What’s actually in this?”

“I’ll bring you an ingredient list,” she scurries away.

Mrs Anna pokes at some more packets.

“Mom?” says Foggy. 

“I know,” says Mrs Anna.

The assistant reappears and hands over the sample packs and a small booklet. “It details the separate St Johns options, and contains lists of all the ingredients.”

“Thank you.”

Another customer comes in just then, and the assistant hurries off to speak to them.

“Oh thank goodness,” says Mrs Anna.

“Mom?” says Foggy more urgently.

“I know. If this is the healthy ingredients list I’d hate to see the unhealthy options. But we’re here now. We might as well try it.” She rips open one of the sample packets, the cod liver oil one judging by the acrid scent assaulting Matt’s nose.

“Ugh,” says Foggy. Matt restrains the urge to elbow him, Foggy’s not going to be the one stuck eating it.

Mrs Anna tips some of the pellets into her hand, and picks one up, studies it for a long moment - then puts it in her mouth.

Shocked to his skin, Matt clutches at Foggy’s arm staring at her with his blind eyes. He can’t believe she actually did that. He wouldn’t believe it, would think his senses had tricked him but he can hear the pellet crunching between her teeth and smell the cod liver oil on her breath.

Mrs Anna chokes a couple of times, then a Kleenex rustles from her pocket and she spits the shattered bits of pellet into her hand.

“That’s revolting. No wonder you’re so skinny. Matt, do you actually like any of these?”

Well, she did ask, Matt’s supposed to be honest with his owners, right?

“No,” he says baldly.

Mrs Anna sighs, “And you didn’t think to tell us this before we trekked all the way here?”

He can’t believe she’s actually asking him that.

“No of course you couldn’t,” she sighs again, “well if you don’t feel able to tell me, at least tell Foggy.” 

“Yes ma’am,” says Matt because the pause seems to require something.

“Thank you. Now let’s go.” She strides forward, calling to the assistant, “Thank you for your help. We’ll consider our options and get back to you.”

She pauses at the treat display, “Would you like… No, after seeing that ingredient list whatever that is, it is not chocolate. I’m not feeding you that. We’ll stop at the bakery on the way home.”

And Mrs Anna marches them right out the shop. Matt still isn’t entirely sure what happened.


	8. Chapter 8

They stop at the bakery on the way home. Matt is not surprised, which surprises him all on its own.

He stands there breathing in the sugar, cinnamon, eggs, caramel, chocolate, dizzy with delight.

“Oooh,” says Foggy, “there are rows and rows of cakes, all shiny and pretty. It’s like Aladdin’s cave. Iced buns in bright white and pink. Chocolate eclairs, the good sort with cream oozing out the edges. On the top row there are cookies as big as your head.”

“Foggy,” Mrs Anna is laughing, “they are not as big as your head.”

“Well they look like they should be,” says Foggy stubbornly, “Matt knew what I meant, didn’t you buddy?”

Matt tenses, not sure which side of the argument he should come down on. Foggy is his owner, but Mrs Anna is the adult and clearly has the power of an overseer with control of food and everything else. On the other hand, Matt does know what Foggy meant, he remembers, dimly, going into cake shops with his dad where they had warm gooey cookies that really did look like they were as big as your head.

In the end Matt goes with the truth. Mind games give him a headache anyway, you tie yourself up in knots and lose regardless. Truth has a nice and solid heft to it, like a punch to the gut.

“I knew what you meant,” he admits.

“See,” Foggy squeezes Matt’s arm in delight. 

“I bow to your superior knowledge of describing baked goods,” says Mrs Anna. “So what would you boys like? Nothing with cream for you, Matt, I don’t think your stomach can take it just yet.”

Matt shudders at the idea of repeating last night. He waits to hear what he’ll be bought, and he hates himself a little for assuming he’ll be bought something but how can he not when they stay so calm all the time and keep doing what they say they will.

The pause grows longer, Matt can hear the tick of Mrs Anna’s heartbeat speeding up but neither she or Foggy say anything as if they’re trapped in a little bubble of silence. Matt’s hand starts to twitch where it rests against Foggy’s arm and he can’t stop it without hanging on tighter.

“Do you want me to list off all the cakes?” says Foggy finally. “If you’re having trouble deciding.”

“I,” Matt thinks about what Mrs Anna actually said and in retrospect supposes it was fairly obvious she wanted him to choose. Given they’re so set on confusing him, he needs to pay more attention and not allow himself to be distracted by rich sugary scents.

“How much are they?” That’s a proper sensible question.

“Oh Matt,” says Mrs Anna. “They’re cakes, the prices are as good as identical. Which one would you _like_?”

“Uh.”

“It’s not a trick question, little treasure.”

All questions that don’t have an obvious yes sir, no sir answer are trick questions. And the endearment just makes things worse. Sometimes after he’d helped his dad to bed when he was drunk and hurt, Dad would pat his head and tell him – thanks son, you’re a good boy, my little treasure.

Matt bites his lip, “I remember, I mean there used to be, there was a round cake, with raisins, thick white icing and a, a,” what’s the word, he can’t remember, “red fruit, very shiny, little,” he holds up a curled finger in demonstration, why can’t he remember the word.

“You mean a cherry,” supplies Foggy.

“Yes that’s right.” The picture of the brown bun and white icing with the small red glace cherry comes into his head with crystal clarity. Matt doesn’t know when he last remembered seeing something so clearly. The memory is so strong, he licks his lips for the phantom taste. He’s not sure he can bear if it they don’t sell them.

“Do they have a cake like that?” he asks hopefully. Then realizes he’s trusting the Nelsons to tell him the truth, and to actually buy him the cake if they can. The floor goes a bit wonky under his feet but he still trusts them. He doesn’t understand himself sometimes.

“If not we’ll find a place that does.” 

“They’re over on the left, Mom.”

“Good, thank you my treasure. Which would you like?”

“I’ll have the same as Matt.”

When the server asks if it’s eat in or take out and Foggy asks for it to be boxed, Matt whimpers, because he’d almost believed it would really happen. But the distance between here and where the Nelsons live is too far, something will change even if he doesn’t know what. He was just being an idiot and he can’t believe he’s getting worked about a cake for all the ridiculous things.

His mental tirade is cut off when Mrs Anna says firmly,

“Eat in.”

“Mom?”

“We’re eating here, right now. Anyway I want a coffee, or actually I want a stiff whiskey but I’ll settle for coffee. Matt would you like a coffee?”

“Uh, I, maybe?” he offers nervously. He has no idea if he likes coffee.

“Matt wants lemonade,” says Foggy, slyness thick in his voice.

Mrs Anna laughs, “You mean you want lemonade. One lemonade,” she tells the server, “And Matt? Do you like lemonade?”

“Yes.” Answering the odd questions is getting easier with practice, “I used to, before my dad…” he swallows and turns into Foggy because he can’t stand the feel of Mrs Anna looking at him.

“Another lemonade and a mocha coffee, please.”

Mrs Anna carries the tray and Foggy pulls out Matt’s chair for him. He sits down and a plate is placed in front of him smelling so strongly of icing he’s drunk on it. Matt just breaths in, the smell is so good he doesn’t actually need to eat it.

“Matt,” Mrs Anna orders. “Eat your cake before Foggy eats it for you.”

“I’m not going to eat Matt’s cake,” Foggy’s voice is sharp with hurt.

“I know, my treasure, I just want Matt to eat,” Mrs Anna leans over and kisses her son on his forehead. He huffs and then hugs her back.

While they’re distracted Matt risks taking a bite of the cake. It’s sweet and chewy and cinnamon. He eats the mouthful as slowly as possible, tasting every last moment. When it’s finally gone he turns his head, trying to work out if anyone’s paying him attention, but both Mrs Anna and Foggy are sipping at their drinks, so he takes another bite of heaven.

When he licks his lips after the third bite they taste salty which is odd. 

Foggy gasps, “Mom.”

And Mrs Anna says, “Shush,” very firmly. Both their hearts are tripping too fast but Matt is concentrating too hard to care. All his senses are focused, taste, touch and smell are full of cake and hearing, well Matt knows he’s imagining it, but he can remember his father’s heartbeat loud and furious and full of fight, not the faded whisper in the alley which was all he could hear for years.

When the cake’s finally gone, he licks his fingers carefully for every last trace. 

“Wipe your face,” Mrs Anna hands him a napkin. His lips still taste salty, he must be hot, and he doesn’t want that taste so he wipes his face carefully. Mrs Anna then hands him a pair of sunglasses.

“We’ll buy you a pair of your own as soon as we can but these will do for now.”

Both Foggy and Mrs Anna’s heartbeats calm down when the glasses are on. Matt twists in his seat. Usually he likes it when his eyes freak people out, he got super-great at freaking out Miss Evangeline’s guests. Now though it’s… not-so-great.

“Let’s go home, your father will be wondering what’s become of us.”

 

When they turn back onto the Nelson’s street – Foggy still leading him and being somehow even more inexplicably gentle – Matt discovers Mr Edward is not wondering about them at all. He is shouting, so loud and angry Matt can hardly believe nobody else can hear him.

The string of profanity is vicious and violent and finishes up with, “ – what the hell kind of fucking difference does that make you piece of shit, he’s goddamn _blind_ – ”

Oh. Somewhere inside himself Matt goes very small and still. Loud voices are never a good thing. Loud voices shouting about Matt are way, way worse.

For a brief panicky second Matt considers tripping over his own feet and claiming his ankle is broken, he can’t walk another step. But Foggy is being too careful with him, he’d know he was faking, it would just make things worse.

Mr Edward is still shouting inside the house but Matt is no longer listening. He puts all his focus on Foggy’s comfortingly stable heartbeat and moves his feet in time because otherwise he’ll just stop. He wonders if he should warn Mrs Anna.

She walks up the stairs, cheerfully calling out, “Edward.”

Matt clutches guiltily after her, trying to pull her back to safety. Upstairs the phone clunks off with grim finality.

“Edward? Are you alright?”

“Just dealing with some b- some idiots. Don’t worry about it.” His voice sounds so calm, but when Matt checks his blood is thundering around his body like a blazing storm.

“Edward?”

“It’s fine, sweetheart. Come on up, I have a surprise.”

Surprises are bad. Surprises are so very bad. 

Matt’s knees are wobbly as he accompanies Foggy up the stairs. The only good thing is there is just the one heartbeat, even if it is a very angry heartbeat.

“Hey Dad,” Foggy walks right up to his father, Matt dragged along unwilling. Foggy gets a quick half hug, Matt a clap on the arm.

“Looking better today s-Matt. Here, this for you.” He picks something up from the table and holds it out. It’s a long slim cane, the sort that leaves bruises that last for weeks.

“It’s a white cane,” says Foggy excitedly.

For a second Matt wonders why the color is important, then has an amazing revelation,

“A white cane for me?” he checks cautiously.

“Yes,” Mr Edward smiles. “I got Mitch to pick it up when he went past the hospital.”

Matt reaches out, but stops himself, “They haven’t let me use one since I left the orphanage. They said it was too dangerous.”

“They tried to give me that guff too, but it’s person who’s in charge of you who gets to make that decision. Which is technically Foggy. Son?”

“Of course Matt can use a cane,” Foggy waves his hand in emphasis. “Why is this even a question.”

The cane is pressed against his hand and Matt’s fingers curl around it automatically. It’s like the return of an old friend. He doesn’t need a cane, but without one he can’t always protect himself even if he knows what’s coming. It’s as if he was just handed safety itself.

“Hopefully it’s an okay length. We’re just borrowing this one for now. I figured you needed a cane as quickly as possible, we’ll get you fitted for your own cane later. I’m still working on lessons but we’ll get there.”

“That’s brilliant Dad,” says Foggy, “thank you so much.”

Yes, Matt should say thank you. And this time he really is thankful which makes things easier. He props his wonderful cane against the wall where it won’t be in the way and disentangles his arm from Foggy’s.

Shuffling forward a few steps until he’s directly in front of Mr Edward, he drops to knees and reaches for the man’s belt.


	9. Chapter 9

His fingers are fumbling with the buckle when he’s shoved fiercely away.

“No!”

Matt lands heavily on one arm. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. Around him three hearts are pounding violently. Anger buffets at him and he sinks beneath waves. Crumpling to the floor, he brings his knees up to his chest and curls his hands protectively over his head.

“Sorry,” he begs. Why has everything gone wrong, “I’m sorry.”

He braces himself for the kicking to start.

“Oh God, s-Matt, I’m so sorry. Come here.” Hands pull him up and he’s clutched in strong arms and yes,

“Yes, I can do better. Tell me what to do, I can be useful.” He tugs at his clothes, trying to strip them way.

“No.” 

He’s shoved away again, and moans in despair, why can he never get anything right.

“Fuck. Here, you take him. Fuck. Anna go, go get a glass of water.” 

He’s hauled against a solid body, arms wrap around him pinning his back to a chest, hands clutch his wrists, a hard chin drops against his shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. Matt, buddy, it’s okay I promise.”

It’s not okay. It’s never okay. Matt struggles, breath whooping through his lungs.

Somebody is cursing violently. The voice in his ear is broken and frightened. Somewhere a door crashes and a woman is crying.

His jerking feet are pinned to the floor. A big hand pushes down against his stomach.

“Breathe,” orders the looming presence in front of him. Matt’s heart skitters in his chest. He can’t breathe. His lungs are seizing. He wants to breathe, wants to be good. He just can’t.

“Put your hand here. Press down to give him something to push against.” The looming presence retreats, the heavy weight on his ankles leaves. Matt flexes his feet but he’s too tired and his legs fall limp.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

The hand against his ribs forces his lungs into a steady pattern. Air whistles through his throat. He can breathe, it’s okay. The arms holding him soften, the racketing heart behind him calms. Matt turns into the hold and rests his heavy head on Foggy’s shoulder. Still shaky, he pushes back against the body holding him and Foggy, shaky himself, holds him tighter. Matt just breathes.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” says Mr Edward.

“It’s okay,” says Foggy but his body twists with the sharp edge of pain.

Matt doesn’t like that, “Foggy?”

“Sorry, can we get up now? Or lean against the couch? My back’s killing me.”

Matt quickly scrambles to his feet, pulling Foggy up after him.

“Oh my God,” says Mr Edward. His heart is still going like a trip-hammer and his breathing’s gone all shuddery. 

Then Mrs Anna is there, “Boys, are you feeling better?”

“We’re fine,” says Foggy and Matt nods.

“Good, I want you to go show Matt around the neighborhood.” 

“Mom?”

“Here,” she picks up the cane and Matt can’t help a small gasp, but Mrs Anna just holds it out for him to take. “Go get some practice. I want Matt to be able to navigate three blocks in each direction.”

“Okay,” Foggy agrees slowly, “I guess that makes sense.”

“And I want, I want Matt to be able to tell me the names of four shops in each block,” she stops, then adds, “By the end of the week. You don’t have to do it all today.”

Matt nods eagerly. “I can be useful. I can do that. I can do that so well.”

Mr Edward makes a wheezing sound like all the air’s been punched out of him. Mrs Anna gives Foggy a gentle push.

“Good, get going.”

“Mom?”

“Everything’s alright dear. Now get going or you’ll be late back for lunch.”

“O-okay.” Foggy glances back anxiously until he has to look forward to make sure they don’t both trip down the stairs as he leads Matt from the room, then down and out onto the street. When the door clicks shut behind it’s as loud as thunder. Matt’s hearing automatically refocuses upstairs, just to check.

Mr Edward is _crying_.

Matt stumbles as Foggy turns them left. Mr Edward is crying. It’s definitely not Mrs Anna, she’s saying nice, soothing things, like Matt’s dad used to when everything hurt after the accident. Mr Edward is gasping and saying things like, “never, never, please believe me,” and “ _useful_ , oh god,” and “what are we going to do?” 

Then Foggy starts listing off the shops down the block and Matt turns his full attention to memorizing every single one. He doesn’t understand what he did wrong but Mrs Anna gave him a mission and he is going to do so, so much better. He’s going to prove he can be useful.

Foggy doesn’t believe how good his memory is until he recites the whole list of shops back to him perfectly. Then he gets all excited and drags Matt around making him repeat the trick.

It’s been a while since Matt has had so much to remember and it makes head ache but Foggy is impressed so maybe Mrs Anna and Mr Edward will be too. He could have remembered even more, but Foggy insists they go back because he’s getting hungry.

“And you’re going pale, Matt, you need food too.”

Matt shifts uncomfortably. He can go a lot longer than two hours without food – he doesn’t like it, it will start to hurt and he’ll get hot and dizzy and his senses won’t quite click right –but he doesn’t need this much food. It’s not really lying not to tell the Nelsons they don’t have to worry so much, is it? It’s not his fault they want to feed him.

Real food too, because Mrs Anna didn’t buy any of the kibble.

And they got mad when he tried to say thank you. He doesn’t understand them at all. He _wants_ to say thank you, why won’t they let him.

It’s very confusing. 

As they walk back, Matt demonstrating how to swing the cane to pick up any obstacles, he throws his hearing ahead to try and pick up some clues.

Mr Edward’s heart is beating strong and smooth again but there’s faint hitch to his breathing.

“You know, Rosalind and I don’t have any family. If things had gone just a little bit differently, that could have been Foggy.”

“Oh no, no, no,” says Mrs Anna, “I promise you love of my heart, that would never have happened.”

“Anna.”

“No. I wouldn’t let it. If I didn’t have you I’d have been so lonely I would have gone looking for a son of my own and I would have found him.”

“That’s a nice thought.” 

“No, it’s what would have happened. I would have found him and he would have been mine. I promise.”

Mr Edward sighs, “I love you so much,” the words sound like they hurt his throat. There’s a soft press of lips to skin, and then Mrs Anna says,

“Of course if I didn’t have you, I wouldn’t have Candace, which could technically be considered a good thing.”

“Anna!” Mr Edward is laughing.

“What? Are you telling me you don’t wish you could fast forward through the next four years until she’s stopped being moody teenager and started being a human being again?”

“I think – I think four years is being horribly optimistic.”

“Oh Edward, don’t say that. Now hush here are the boys.”


	10. Chapter 10

Foggy gets hugs from both his parents and Mrs Anna squeezes Matt’s arm, but not hard or anything. Then while she heats up soup for lunch, Mr Edward listens carefully as Matt lists off the rows of shops

“I’m impressed, Matt, you must have worked very hard.”

Matt itches in place because it wasn’t really difficult or anything.

“And Foggy well done for showing Matt around.” Foggy bounces on his toes. “I have to admit I’ll need to actually head outside to check you’ve got them all right. We’ll do that later.”

Matt nods but he’s a little puzzled. Mr Edward can see the streets all the time why doesn’t he know where the shops are.

“Now Matt I wanted to talk to you for a minute – ”

“I’m sorry,” Matt says quickly, because sometimes that helps.

He can hear Mr Edward looking at him, “What are you sorry for?”

“Being bad.”

Mr Edward sighs, “Matt you weren’t bad, you were just… confused.”

Matt nods, he’s definitely confused.

“So we’re going to have a new rule, it’s very important, are you listening?”

Matt nods earnestly. He likes rules, even if he’s getting hit for breaking them at least he knows why.

“Okay the rule is, you do not have sex – ”

Matt twists anxiously but just manages to stop himself from asking exactly what that means. Mr Edward shakes head and adds,

“- or any sort of sexual contact, of any sort, with anyone at all, ever.”

“Dad,” Foggy protests.

“You can make different rules later, but under my roof, Matt does not have sex. Do you understand, Matt?”

“Yes.” That’s a nice simple rule. It doesn’t make a lot of sense – or wait, no sex in the house, Mr Robert never actually said that but it was only at his office, never back at his house. And Miss Kendra was so mad when Mr Robert ordered Matt to get down on his knees in front of her, Matt had heard her storming through the house, smash of china and glass in her wake, then the bullwhip had snapped and Matt couldn’t hear anything but the crack of leather and his own screaming – maybe it’s some people rule that makes sense to them. Slave rules and real people rules are not at all the same, he knows that.

(It was different at Mr David’s but that doesn’t count. Mr David broke lots of real people rules – in fact he broke so many people rules, important ones, that they arrested him for embezzlement.)

He nods firmly. He understands.

“Good,” says Mr Edward. He reaches out towards Matt and Matt holds himself very still. Mr Edward’s hand stutters, then pats Matt on the shoulder, twice, soft as cat fur.

“Good, I’m glad that’s sorted,” says Mrs Anna, “now it’s time for lunch.”

It’s the same chicken soup as before and it’s just as delicious. There’s bread too and Matt is given his own slice. When he’s finished Matt hugs his full warm stomach and blinks sleepily.

“That’s it,” says Mrs Anna, “you need sleep.”

“But I haven’t shown you all the shops I can remember,” Matt has to prove he’s useful somehow, if he wants to convince them to keep him. And Matt really does want them to keep him. He hasn’t wanted anyone to keep him since Stick, and that – did not go well. But Matt’s older now, he’s better, he can make this work.

“Sleep. You’ll be no good to anybody dozing off where you stand.”

“I wouldn’t,” Matt protested and then flinched in expectation of a slap for back-talking.

“It okay little treasure, you have quite a deficit to work off. I don’t know how anybody could sleep in that horrid shop.”

Matt had the strange urge to tell her about the half-trance you slipped into, not really awake but not asleep either, because you never really slept. And that one night assistant, a slave himself and vindictive with it – which was why the owner kept him – who liked to bang on all the cages every thirty minutes to jerk them all awake just as something close to the protective depths of sleep was drawing them down.

He shakes himself. It must the tiredness rolling over him. He doesn’t understand why he’s reacting like this. Six years of learning is disintegrating around him.

“Sleep,” says Mrs Anna, she takes his arm and gently tows him towards Foggy’s bedroom, shooing him inside.

Matt sniffs at the bed and its warm comforting clean human scent. With any other owner he’d take advantage of the lack of clear directions and curl up there. But six years of hard won caution tell him that aggravating so relaxed an owner is stupid beyond belief, and somewhere deep inside the small part of him that is still Matty cringes at the thought of their anger, he _wants_ to be good for them.

He shuffles across the room until his patting hands find the desk Foggy described and ducks under the scuffed chipboard. There he’s safely out the way and it’s almost cozy. Twisting himself into a tight ball on the worn carpet, he tucks his hands under his cheek and prepares to fall asleep.

The door slams open.

“I knew it!” exclaims Foggy.

Matt tilts his head cautiously towards him, he sounds agitated but not angry.

“Come out of there right this minute.”

Crawling out from under the desk Matt feels very much like a dog expecting to be kicked but hoping for a pat. He stands up as quickly as possible.

“Bed,” orders Foggy.

“Beds aren’t for slaves.”

“Arrgh,” says Foggy, “Please note I am pulling my hair in exasperation. Where did the parents put you last night?”

“That was an exception, they were just being nice.” Owners have whims sometimes, sudden unexpected kindnesses that make you dizzy until you realize it’s just another way of hurting you. Miss Evangeline used to coo and flutter, she’d pet Matt’s hair and sometimes afterwards she let him wear a thick fluffy robe and she’d feed him the same fancy foods she served her guests – she never let him choose the food though, not like Mrs Anna did.

“They weren’t being nice, they were being half-decent, which admittedly you don’t seem to have much experience of. And if my mom catches you sleeping on the floor, it will break her heart.”

Matt doesn’t like that thought, Mrs Anna shouldn’t be upset about him. Resistance fading, he reluctantly slinks towards the bed. He can’t bring himself to lie down, not when Foggy is standing right there so he just perches awkwardly on the edge.

“Arrgh,” says Foggy again, but more softly. He props the pillow up against the wall and sits down. Matt watches nervously.

“Okay come here.” Foggy reaches out for him. Matt twitches, because Mr Edward did say, but then Foggy is still wearing his clothes, and,

“Come here.”

Direct order. Matt goes there. He lets himself go limp and malleable as Foggy shifts him how he wants. He ends up lying along Foggy’s side, head resting against his chest.

“Snuggle party,” cheers Foggy as he pulls the blankets up over them. “I probably shouldn’t but I get the feeling if I don’t hang on to you, you aren’t going to listen to a word I say. Candycane has been like that since she started Freshman year, she hears everything you say wrong unless you’re hugging her. That’s why she and Mom yell so much.”

Matt stays fixed in place, but it’s hard to be tense when Foggy’s only lying there, and he is tired and Foggy is a warm solid presence and he’s being touched and it doesn’t hurt. Matt sighs lets himself rest a little more heavily. Foggy hums and runs his hand down Matt’s arm. Matt blinks his wet eyes.

“So you have any questions?” asks Foggy.

“Huh?”

“Questions? Because I’m mostly spit balling here, and I’d ask you to tell me if I’m getting it wrong but I have this funny feeling that won’t get me anywhere, so yeah I’m spit balling, but it seems like you’d have questions?”

Matt does have questions like, why are you being so nice to me? He doesn’t want to hear the answers though. He shakes his head.

Foggy sighs, “Oh well, it was worth a try. So I have questions?” There’s a long pause and then he sighs again, “Questions like why on earth did you try and give my dad a blow job. That was what you were doing, right?”

“I wanted to say thank you, I didn’t realize it was a people rule.”

“You wanted to say thank you?”

“Yes.” Matt’s sleepy brain wakes up a bit, “I, there’s one thing I’m not sure about?” he tries tentatively.

“Yes! Now we’re getting somewhere. Okay, lay it on me.”

“Mr Edward said not under his roof?”

“Yes.”

“Does that include the shop? Because it’s under the roof, but it’s also work, so I’m not sure what the people-rule is?”

“Oh man, I totally called that one. And I’m pretty sure I don’t want to understand the concept of a people-rule, so we’re going to have a Matt-rule.”

“A Matt-rule?” Matt smiles and doesn’t understand why except he likes the way Foggy sounds, all exasperated but his heart is a steady reassuring thump.

“A Matt-rule. There’ll probably be a few, so pay attention, there will be a test.”

Matt nods seriously.

Foggy tugs at his hair and mutters, “so going to have to watch what I say.”

“The rule,” Matt prompts anxiously.

“Okay the rule – and I’m trying to make this as fool proof as possible because you’re like a demented genie who can always find some horrifying loophole – the rule is you do not have sex of any sort, at all, under any circumstances. I thought Dad was being a hard-ass, cause that’s what college is for, right, meeting cute girls who haven’t know you since you were six and still eating crayons, but clearly he was on the right track. So we’ll go with a flat prohibition and revisit it next year and see how you feel then. So, repeat the rule to me.”

“No sex of any sort, at all, under any circumstances.”

“Good, you got it.”

“But I don’t understand. I wouldn’t mind. I want to.”

“To say thank you?”

“Yes,” Matt beams because finally he’s managed to make himself understood. He wriggles a bit, trying to slide down Foggy’s body, but the arm around him clamps tight.

“Stay still.”

Matt freezes.

“What’s the Matt-rule?”

“No sex, but,”

“Were there any exceptions?”

“No but,”

“But nothing. You think I’d beat you, or, or worse, if you told me no. I don’t need Mom nagging at me. I know what consent is, and that is not it. You can’t say yes, until you believe you can say no.”

“But I want to thank you.” He has to, they’ve been so nice, he has to find some way to pay them back or they’ll stop wasting their time. Desperate, he’d thrash and beg but his limbs are too heavy, he’s almost drugged on the physical contact, all he can manage is to clutch feebly at Foggy’s t-shirt.

“Oh that’s different. You really want to thank me?”

Matt nods eagerly.


	11. Chapter 11

There’s a long pause while Foggy thinks. Matt twitches, then Foggy’s hand strokes firmly across his shoulders, and every muscle in his body relaxes.

“Okay,” Foggy says finally, “first I would take it as personal favor if you never let my mom find you sleeping on the floor because she will k-, well no she wouldn’t do anything as drastic as that, but she will be very unhappy with me. And I don’t like my mom being unhappy.”

“Don’t let Mrs Anna find me sleeping on the floor.”

“Exactly. Wait – let’s rephrase that to, _don’t sleep on the floor so Mrs Anna won’t find me there_. Much better.”

“Don’t sleep on the floor so Mrs Anna won’t find me there,” Matt repeats obediently. “I guess I should move to quarters.” He doesn’t want to leave though, maybe Foggy will let him stay here, just for the moment.

“Quarters?”

“The room where the stairs switch back. I know that’s where I should be sleeping. It smells like a slave place.” Cold and full of metal and dust.

“You are such good training for contract law.” Foggy’s heartbeat is thundering loud and angry but his voice is calm, “That’s where Dad stashes his excess stock, it smells mostly of old boxes and you are never sleeping there.”

“But.”

“We have a camp bed. Once you’re feeling better you can help me extract it from under the parents’ bed and get it set up.”

“I’m fine now.”

“Yeah, but let’s not move for the moment, it’s comfy here.”

“Okay,” if that’s what Foggy wants to do, who is Matt to argue against staying warm and cozy. He settles a little closer and is rewarded with another stroke.

“Good, that’s settled. Now if you really want to say thank you, I want you to tell me three things you like and three things you don’t like.”

Matt stiffens because he didn’t think Foggy would try and trap him like that.

“I’ll even go first if you want. I like, ugh, this harder than I thought… okay I like pancakes, and mom, and debate team. I don’t like math, cycling, or sprouts. Now your turn.”

“I,”

“And let me warn you, I am so on to you, buddy. You try and cheat by just repeating them back to me and I will, I will,” Foggy’s voice trails off in thought before coming back strongly, “I will hold you here and keep snuggling until you come up with some of your own.”

That’s too good to resist. Matt simply cannot stop himself from testing that. 

“I like pancakes, your mother, and debate team,” he can feel Foggy’s arm tightening around him, gasps, and finishes in a rush, “I don’t like math, cycling, or sprouts.” Then rather desperately adds, “I’m sorry,” and waits for a response.

Foggy laughs softly, “That was pretty good, except for the apology at the end. If you’re going to be a smart-ass, and I have a feeling you’ll be an excellent one once you get your legs under you, don’t apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Uh uh, what did I say?”

Matt’s not sure what he’s referring to, Foggy says a lot, so he stays quiet.

“I can wait here all day.” 

Foggy’s clearly confused when it comes to punishment because Matt would happily stay here all day.

“Alright, let’s break it down and make it easier. Tell me something you don’t like. There has to be a lot of them”

That’s true enough. And Foggy doesn’t seem like he expects Matt to be grateful for everything. Ducking his head and focusing intently on Foggy’s heartbeat which is reassuringly stable, Matt whispers,

“I don’t like kibble.”

“There’s a shocker.”

Matt cringes.

“Shit, sorry, you were being serious. That was already out of the bag, buddy, but I’ll let you count it since you seem to think we hadn’t noticed.”

Emboldened by the lack of reaction, Matt whispers even more quietly, “I don’t like being hurt.”

The roar of Foggy’s heartbeat is a loud angry wind. After a long minute he says, “Well you don’t have to worry about that anymore. It’s not going to happen.”

Matt can’t hear the lie, which is strange. He likes the illusion of it though.

“Give me just one more.”

Matt thinks. It had been hard to admit the other two because saying it out loud made him too aware of how much it was true, how much he hated kibble and being hurt, and how little he could do about it.

But they’re not really personal to Matt. It’s not anything Foggy couldn’t have figured out for himself. They’re not a secret, they’re not anything he could use to hurt Matt more. And that means they don’t really count as a disclosure, aren’t really a thank you.

Mat bites his lip. 

He listens to Foggy’s heartbeat, presses against his solidity, smells the cleanness of him, takes a deep breath and admits,

“I don’t like bananas.”

Reaction sets in immediately sweeping through his body in a flush of shame. No matter how safe he feels, how could he have been so stupid to say that where somebody could hear. He doesn’t understand his own brain sometimes, why hand over a weapon like that. It would have been so simple to say oranges, which he’s indifferent to. Instead he went and told the truth. 

He hates bananas, even the smell is enough to make his stomach churn. He’s rarely forced to eat one though, fruit’s not usually wasted on slaves, and if it’s a reward there’s generally a choice and he’s been able to grab a sweet, crisp apple. Last time he had to eat banana he threw up but managed to convince his owner he was sick. Because giving away such a weak point was unthinkable unless he wanted to starve to death in a cage full of bananas.

“Good,” says Foggy. “Thank you for telling me. Because once you’re better Mom’s going to be feeding you fruit like a mad woman. I’ll head her off bananas.”

“Thank you.” Matt maybe believes that. Because they’ll work best as a punishment if kept for special occasions. 

“So let’s get started on the likes. Tell me a fruit you do like.”

Since he’s apparently gone crazy, why not, “Strawberries,” he confesses, because strawberries are heavenly and even working in a farm gang picking them for three months and eating far too many of them didn’t cure his love for them.

“Great, there’s this super delicious strawberry fool. If I tell Mom it’s for you, she’ll definitely make us some. What else do you like?”

“I, I really do like your mother.”

“Still a duplicate but I’ll allow it because Mom is amazing. Last one.”

“Uh,” Matt stalls because he can’t think of anything. He likes not being hurt, he likes being warm, he likes, “This.”

“You don’t have to, oh okay, that was you being serious again,” Foggy sounds sad, Matt lifts his head to try and focus better but Foggy presses it back down with one big warm hand. “As personally affirming as that is, we’re really going to have to work on extending your range, buddy.”

“Okay.” Matt’s confused again, but too sleepy to care much.

“But for the moment we can just stay here and snooze.”

Matt smiles into his chest, “Whatever you want.”


	12. Chapter 12

Matt wakes up when Mr Edward calls Mrs Anna and her heartbeat flips into an agitated triple time. It takes him a moment to figure out where he is, still curled in bed with Foggy, and what’s going on, Mrs Anna is hurrying downstairs to join with Mr Edward and two other people, men standing close by. Mr Edward is speaking, he doesn’t sound as anxious as Mrs Anna feels.

“Afternoon Doyle, would it be alright if my wife and I had a quick word with you and your Sean?”

“What’s the problem?” demands presumably Doyle, aggressive and shifting closer to the second person who’s twisting nervously on the balls of his feet.

“There’s no problem. It’s only we recently, um, that is, Foggy now has Matt so we need to know how to look after a slave.”

“You feed them and don’t hit ’em too hard, it’s not rocket science,” says Doyle, but his voice isn’t as hard as the words.

“We’ve been having some issues and we thought perhaps a different perspective would help. Matt is very reluctant to talk to us, which is understandable, but it does makes things difficult.”

“Sean, you okay with this?”

“Sure, happy to help.” Sean doesn’t sound very happy though. “What did you want to ask?”

“You didn’t buy a discipline case did you?” Doyle checks cautiously, “Because they’re nothing but trouble and never worth the discount.”

“No, no,” Mr Edward shakes his head, “Matt’s very good.”

Matt beams and feels an urge to wake Foggy up and tell him, your father says I’m very good.

“Well he’s certainly trying to be anyway.”

Matt rubs his hand against his mouth as his smile falters at the qualification.

“What’s he doing?” asks Doyle

“He has some, uh, odd ideas about appropriate behavior. He tried to, he went down on his knees to me in our kitchen right in front of Anna and Foggy.”

“You bought your kid a cum dump?” Sean exclaims.

Matt flinches as the words strike him.

“Watch your language,” snaps Mr Edward.

“Sorry. ’Cuse me Mrs Nelson, ma’am.” Sean’s feet shuffle across the floor, likely seeking refuge beside his owner.

“Sorry,” agrees Doyle, “But he’s not wrong. Why would you buy the kid a sex slave? There’s plenty of places he can go to get his rocks off. He is normal, isn’t he? Sorry, beg your pardon, that’s none of my business.”

Mr Edward sighs heavily, “We didn’t buy a sex slave. We, that is, Foggy needed some help studying.”

Sean laughs, harsh and rough, “I’m sorry Mr Nelson, you got cheated, they sold you a cum dump, sorry, a sex slave, and a cheap one too by the sounds of it, you should get rid of him.”

Matt very carefully pulls away from Foggy and, turning onto his side, pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs himself tightly.

“He’s right,” agrees Doyle. “You need to be more careful. Sex slaves, once they’ve been used a couple of years, are no use for anything else. They do shit like try to suck you off in front of your wife. You need to look for a working slave with only a trainer, or maybe one previous owner. Those that have been through St Agnes are usually good, that’s where I found Sean. They keep the ones with potential until they’re seventeen or so, get them trained up to be useful, not like the ones only good on their backs.”

“How many owners does he have?” asks Sean, “Not the shop-owners, or trainers, although too many of them’s not good, but actual owners – that’s the real danger sign.”

“Five I think. He was at St Agnes until he was thirteen.”

“St Agnes sold him on at thirteen,” Sean sniggers, “He must have been hopeless. Even the thick ones stay on til fourteen.”

Matt shudders, cold slowly creeping over him like a smothering blanket.

Doyle asks, “So how old is he?” 

“A month short of eighteen.”

Both man and slave suck their breath through their teeth. “Five owners in four years,” Doyle shakes his head, “and I thought I was taking a risk with Sean and his two previous owners.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” mutters Sean.

“Don’t knock it,” Doyle advises cheerfully, “Without that discount I wouldn’t have been able to afford you. How much did you pay Nelson, if I can ask?”

“Seven-fifty.”

“I don’t know much about study aids but seven thousand seems too cheap.”

“No, not seven thousand. Seven hundred and fifty.”

Sean laughs out loud, “Snuff-bait, you got sold snuff-bait as a study aid, they must have seen you coming.”

Matt’s having difficulty breathing over the crushing agony in his chest.

“Sean,” Doyle scolds.

“Sorry,” says Sean, “I didn’t mean, I’m sorry Mr and Mrs Nelson. Buying slaves can be tricky, Mike you should give the name of the broker you used.”

“Yeah,” agrees Doyle, “if you’d mentioned it earlier I’d have recommended him, Owen Gallagher, you should get in touch, get rid of one you’ve got and start again, Gallagher will steer you right.”

“They won’t be able to sell him. Sorry Mr Nelson it’s true. You won’t get any kind of price for snuff-bait. The best thing you can do for him is to pay to have him put down.”

“Absolutely not,” snaps Mr Edward.

Matt chokes on the pain lodged in his throat. It costs to have a slave put down formally and most people don’t bother. Traders usually do though to keep the abolitionists quiet, so Matt had at least been able to think that it wouldn’t hurt. The Nelsons are nice though… surely they won’t… they don’t treat him like snuff-bait. They’ll probably drown him in the bath tub, that’s very popular, because it’s quick and easy to clean up. The last shop would accept the bodies for disposal if they weren’t too damaged and sell them on to a medical lab for a few extra dollars.

The Nelsons are nice. Mrs Anna might even make the strawberry desert for him first, and she’d be gentle, and Matt can’t breathe.

Downstairs Sean huffs, “Suit yourself. Your kid goes to a smart school out the district, don’t he? He must catch hell being from the Kitchen, let him take his pet in and they can kick it around instead. That’s all it’s good for.”

“Sean! You’ll have to excuse him, he’s bitter and twisted about the sex slaves getting all the attention from the abolitionists.”

“Wouldn’t you be, those pampered little princesses who think they’re better than me just because their owners are somebody important as if they don’t spend their days writhing around like a bitch in heat. That poseur Stark spends hundreds of thousands just to free one cum dump who’ll never be good for anything else, when he could free most of the slaves in Hell’s Kitchen for the same money.”

“Hey,” Doyle smacks him on the back, “You’ll get there in the end.”

“I know, it’s just, I know.” Sean’s breathing too fast but he swallows it down. “Sorry. Sorry Mr and Mrs Nelson. I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.”

“No, it’s been very illuminating,” says Mr Edward, “Thank you for your time.”

Matt’s shaking from the need for air, when arms curl around him.

“Here,” says Foggy, “sit up a bit. Okay, now breathe for me. You can do that. Just breathe for me.”

He’s pulled back against Foggy’s chest as Foggy’s legs settle either side of him. One flat hand pushes lightly at his rebelling lungs. Behind him he can hear the breath whistling through Foggy’s mouth and unconsciously tries to match the rhythm.

“That’s good, that’s good Matt.”

Matt’s hands scrabble for grip against the sheets. Please be real, he thinks desperately, please be real.


	13. Chapter 13

Foggy is terrified. Foggy is terrified and he needs to get used to it because he has a feeling he’s going to spend the rest of his life terrified for Matt, terrified he’s going to hurt Matt. If he makes a mistake, Matt is going to get hurt and it will be his fault.

It would be so easy for attention to slip and who knows what would happen to Matt. If Foggy hadn’t caught him out, he’d still be sleeping under Foggy’s desk like a damn dog when the bed was right there. And bananas, if he hadn’t wriggled that out of Matt, he knows his mom would have fed them to Matt as a treat and the idea of Matt forcing himself to eat something he hated was horrible. And Matt must so hate bananas if they made it onto the same list as kibble and…

Yeah, Foggy would like to go have a nervous breakdown now.

He’d thought it would be easy and, he hated himself now, he thought it would be nice. Of course he understood that being a slave wasn’t anyone’s choice, but the slaves Foggy knew in his neighborhood always seemed okay, except for the one who belonged to James Donovan, who was mean and twisted and hated everybody. He once made Candace cry when he told her to keep her chin up, her mother was such a looker Candace was bound to get better as she got older. 

Though back when Foggy was thirteen or so a gas explosion destroyed the Butler house with the whole Butler family inside. There had been a big investigation and Dad had been worried because he sold the copper joints for the gas piping when they renovated the house, but as it turned out the Butlers’ slave had slashed the gas pipe one night, waited for the place to fill with gas, and lit a match.

Foggy remembered seeing her picture circled in the paper a pale hunched girl at the back of the Butlers’ celebratory photos. She’d been a cinderella, a slave kept for housework named both for the endless drudgery of the role and, Foggy discovered as he got older, for the likelihood that the husband of the family was regularly trying her out for size. There had been a fuss, the Protectionists calling for better regulation of slaves when not under the observation of their owners. His mom and dad had told him not to ask questions, Michael Butler was not a nice man and sometimes when you weren’t nice other people were not nice back and that is was best forgotten. The teachers hadn’t let them talk about it at school. They all had a lecture from the Headmaster on how it was a great tragedy, but Michael Butler had been new money without the background to control his slave appropriately, so the school was going to have extra lessons for all the pupils from slave owning families, which was most of them, and any pupil who had aspirations to be a slave-owner, so they would know how to handle slaves correctly.

Foggy hadn’t gone to those lessons, hadn’t asked his parents to allow him to sign-up like Juan Estevez and Ciara Roark, the other pupils in his year from disadvantaged backgrounds, because he hadn’t ever intended to own a slave. In their year Sebastian Courtenay had been the only one other than Foggy not to attend the lessons.

The Courtenays turned out to be abolitionists and Sebastian and his older sister Miranda ended up leaving the Academy after several fights that ended messily, all of which Foggy avoided because he was hiding in the library office the way he always did.

Foggy hasn’t thought about the Courtenays and the death of the Butlers for years. The Academy had developed collective amnesia over the whole affair and no abolitionist set foot on the grounds again. 

The other kids are dicks about their families’ slaves and to their families’ slaves. Ricky Pemberton has started to boast he was fucking his parents’ cinderella, _if she’s good enough for my old man she’s good enough for me_. Foggy has a theory that your level of general dickishness rose exponentially with the number of slaves held by your family.

Yet somehow none of this had bothered him when Rosalind had suggested he have his own slave. He doesn’t know what had come over him except he was scared of leaving the safety of the librarian’s office, and the small study group she let hide there. He was off to college which would be full of clones of his schoolmates without even the back up of Sofia, the newest library recruit who was a tiny, terrified, seventh grader. Foggy doesn’t think he’s heard her say anything other than yes and no but he managed to coax a couple of smiles from her before the end of year rolled around. Now Sofia and the others would go back to school in September without Foggy to help them out. Not that the rest of the kids are scared of Foggy, but they know he’ll go to the Administration if they mess with one of his friends. Foggy might not be a fighter but he is a hell of an arguer.

So yes being scared led to bad life choices like thinking a ready-made friend sounded the best thing ever. He really hadn’t thought it through. Sure he was basically forcing someone to be his friend but given the choice between him and Ricky, Foggy was definitely the better option, right? And Rosalind was talking about a study buddy, not anything else. Once his slave figured out he wasn’t too bad a person all things considered everything would be okay.

And then they had walked into the shop, with all those people in _cages_. Foggy had wanted to turn tail and run. But when he’d agreed to a slave, Rosalind had actually sounded sort of proud of him for once – not that he wants her to be proud of him, Mom thinks he’s great and that’s enough for him – and he’s used to being called a cowardly lion but he doesn’t like to think he’s a coward.

Then he discovered Matt, and everything had seemed easy again.

Foggy is an idiot. He wishes he could go back in time and shake some sense into his idiotic self, except then Matt would still be in that cage, still being hurt.

He can’t regret anything that led to Matt being safe from that. Except now Matt is reliant on Foggy, who is an idiot and isn’t even qualified to look after himself. The best thing might be to take Matt back and let someone who knew what they were doing buy him, except, no, because Matt said, _I don’t like being hurt,_ as if it was a terrible secret and Foggy wanted everyone who ever owned him dead at his feet.

Foggy knows he’s going to screw this up horribly but at least he’ll never hurt Matt deliberately. And that should be a given, not some sort of compelling argument.

He takes a deep breath, he needs to get his head into the game. Matt will quite obviously do anything he tells him to, will even try and anticipate him, like sleeping on the floor. He did not need Mom saying in a terse voice that Matt saying yes to sex wouldn’t mean a thing, Foggy knows that, knew that before Matt, and knows it even more now. Matt would say yes to anything, and the thought makes his gut heave.

Matt would say yes to anything and Foggy needs to work out how to keep him safe. The bananas is a good start, but he has to expand that list, and – oh God, allergies, he hadn’t even thought about allergies.

Okay first on the list is allergies. Maybe they’re noted in Matt’s papers. Once he’s sure he isn’t going to accidentally kill Matt, he will…

His train of thought runs abruptly off the tracks when Matt starts to wheeze for breath.

Pulling him so he’s sitting upright Foggy tries to soothe him like he did before, tries to coach him to breathe like Dad showed him. Frantically he wonders what set Matt off, he’d been lying beside Foggy perfectly fine and then…

Oh Foggy is so, so stupid, somebody had clearly used sex to abuse Matt and there’s Foggy forcing him to share a bed. He’d only wanted Matt to sleep in the damn bed, but Matt obviously thinks Foggy wants… Matt had seemed okay with it though, but Foggy knows that doesn’t mean anything and, oh, he is so, so stupid.

He jerks away from Matt, almost throwing himself off the bed in his violent need to be away.

Matt gurgles for air, he sounds like he’s choking.

Tongue seized to the roof of dry mouth, Foggy hacks and coughs as he attempts to force out reassurances. All he can hear is Matt’s frantic gasping and then begging, “Don’t let go, don’t let go, dontletgo.”

It takes him a moment to disentangle the garbled words and then he doesn’t understand but Matt’s hands are clutching at the empty air, so he slides closer and then Matt’s clutching at him. Foggy wraps his arms around him and hangs on as Matt knocks them flat against the bed in his struggle to get closer.

“It’s okay,” he promises nonsensically, “I’m right here, I’m here.”

Foggy is terrified but maybe, if he holds onto Matt as tight as he possibly can, things will be okay.


	14. Chapter 14

After Matt’s able to sit back up, swiping at his eyes and soothed to hiccupy gasps, Foggy is acutely aware that the walls seem to be closing in on him and that his own nervous breakdown is a lot less hypothetical.

“We should go for another walk,” he suggests hopefully, “test out your new cane.”

He’s expecting Matt to want to stay in bed, or at least to take some more time to recover himself, but he jumps straight to his feet.

“Yes, let’s go.” He looks more cheerful too, although his eyes are still wrecked.

“Here,” Foggy hands him his sunglasses that hit the floor sometime in the kerfuffle. “Put these on or Mom’s going to think I’ve been beating you.”

The moment he’s said it he cringes because way to be tactless, except Matt doesn’t seem bothered, he just chuckles and slides the glasses on.

“Better?”

“Looking good.” Although the glasses don’t suit him really. The lenses are too big and blocky and turn him bug-eyed. Matt’s too precise for that, they need to get him something finer.

Matt’s mouth loses its smile, lips drawing into a thin line. He fiddles with the cuffs of his hoodie.

“We should go,” he mutters, “I have another two blocks to learn.”

Foggy kind of thinks Mom was a genius for coming up with that and he kind of hates her too because Matt is determined to have the whole of Hell’s Kitchen memorized by the end of the week. He’d originally thought it was completely impossible but Matt’s memory is scary good and Matt is scary determined. It makes Foggy feel inadequate because mostly he just wants to get through the day without drawing any attention to himself.

Still, outside, with air and open sky, sounds great,

“Let’s go.”

When they tell his parents where they’re going, Mom looks like she’s questioning the wisdom of her get Matt to learn the neighborhood plan too, and Foggy can’t help grinning at her. She smacks him on the shoulder and tells him to stop being cheeky which feels so nice and normal Foggy just grins harder and she grins back.

Dad still seems a bit shell-shocked so Foggy just gives him a hug. He often ends up shell-shocked when Rosalind’s involved. Foggy doesn’t exactly speculate about his biological parents’ relationship, because brain bleach, but he does sometimes wonder if his dad just stumbled around in a haze for eighteen months. It would explain a lot.

Dad hugs him back and tells him to watch out for Matt, which… Foggy’s got that memo okay. He needs to watch Matt like a hawk in case Matt takes it into his head that what Foggy really wants is for him to jump off the roof or something equally horrendous.

“I got this.” He passes the cane to Matt, holding it steady until Matt’s fingers have closed around the handle. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

Outside he feels like he can breathe easy again and his stomach uncramps from its tight knot of misery.

“Yeah, this is better.”

Matt brightens too, tilting his head back to more fully appreciate the warmth of the sun. Then he jumps like someone scolded him for taking a moment to enjoy himself, and promptly rattles off every building in the street.

The feat of memory is no longer surprising but it’s still impressive. Foggy is more than happy to stroll along the streets with Matt describing houses as he goes. It’s mildly disturbing to discover Matt can repeat his commentary complete with intonation but it’s also pretty cool, nobody has ever paid that much attention to Foggy when he’s babbling.

He does make sure to tell Matt, twice, that he doesn’t need to recite it word for word and in fact Foggy can’t even remember what he said five minutes later, but it just seems to be how Matt remembers.

When Matt tries to turn down 52nd, Foggy automatically tugs him back.

“We don’t go down there.”

“Why not? It seems fine.”

Foggy opens his mouth to explain Matt can’t see how dingy the street looks with its ragged buildings and raddled sidewalks strewn with trash. Then reconsiders. The last time he mapped Hell’s Kitchen he’d been eight and he and Brett Mahoney were the sort of little idiots who bullied each other into climbing up scaffolding where they promptly got stuck, and into spending the night in the graveyard where they scared themselves so badly they ran home by half-past nine. 

Now he’s technically a grown-up, the tales of slave-catchers aren’t so frightening, because nobody’s going to bother snatching Foggy (although they’re terrifying on a whole new level because – Candace) and really it’s daylight, mid-afternoon, nothing’s going to happen to them. He’s not coming back at night though.

“You should avoid this street after dark,” he warns Matt.

“Yes Foggy,” says Matt. And Foggy shoots him a suspicious glance because he’s nearly certain that’s exactly how he sounds when he says, Yes Mom, without meaning a word of it. But Matt’s just innocently tapping along, head tilted as he listens carefully and Foggy feels like shit.

He quickly starts narrating a description of the horribly depressing street. It’s not that bad really, but it desperately needs a new coat of paint and somebody to care about it. There aren’t many people about and they hurry along with their heads down. Every other shop is closed up and metal-shuttered but there’s a hair salon with dummies with bad wigs in the window, a general store with crates of fruit and vegetables stacked in front, a second-hand clothes store with a neat little window display, and a small bakery with a couple of tables set up outside.

“Oooh baklava,” Foggy coos at the trays set out in the window, completely diverted from narrating duties.

Matt stumbles to a stop beside him, “What’s baklava?”

“You don’t know what baklava is? This needs to be fixed immediately. Everyone should know of the wonderfulness that is baklava. I can force myself to eat some too and keep you company.”

“Force yourself huh?” says Matt and actually laughs at him for a full five seconds before he remembers he’s probably not supposed to and goes abruptly stone-faced.

Foggy thinks all laughing should be encouraged, particularly if it’s at his bad jokes, so he nudges Matt carefully and says, 

“Exactly. I have a noble soul, I can make sacrifices.”

“By eating baklava?”

“You got it.” He urges Matt towards the door. “Wait you’re not allergic to nuts are you?”

“No, I’m not allergic to anything as far as I know.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

That is so not encouraging. Foggy is definitely checking Matt’s papers as soon as possible. 

Inside the bakery Matt tucks his cane in close to his side out the way and Foggy relinks their arms, drawing Matt towards the counter. While they wait for the woman in front of them to finish ordering, Foggy considers the state of his wallet, saving for college is not kind to it, and squints hopefully at the prices.

The girl serving is pretty but faded around the edges like she’s spent so long trying not be noticed she’s actually disappearing. Foggy smiles winningly,

“Hi, my friend and I would like some baklava.”

“Of course sir.”

“Maybe five pieces,” he says uncertainly, “depending on the type and can we have tap water?”

“Foggy, you don’t need to buy me any,” Matt whispers.

“Oh hush.”

She sells him a selection plate, which he can just afford after retrieving a couple of dimes from his pocket, and gives them two glasses of tap water. 

“You should have soda,” mutters Matt.

“Nope, not with baklava. Now tell me which type you like best?”

They sit outside and Foggy forces a piece on him. Matt tries to bite it neatly in two but ends up having to shove the whole thing into his mouth before he drips syrup everywhere.

“Careful, it’s sticky,” Foggy warns blatantly too late.

“Mrumph,” says Matt around his gummed up mouth. And then, “That’s really good,” as he licks his thumb.

“I know,” Foggy grins, delighted with his success. Then he grins some more as Matt makes a grab for the water.

Things are going well when Matt suddenly stiffens up like someone jabbed him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Matt says with an unconvincing smile.

Foggy is about to go into a detailed diatribe about how he can’t fix problems if he doesn’t know what they are, when he hears the yelling from inside the bakery. Turning to look he sighs when he sees there’s a customer kicking off. He can’t make out individual words, they probably don’t make any sense anyway since customers who blow up never do. Foggy’s had to put up with a few at the store. They tend not to do it to Candace but she gets patronized like nobody’s business. Foggy’s not sure which is worse.

Although the moron in front of him is currently a front-runner in the worst customer ever stakes. He’s bellowing like a bull and throwing his weight around in a very literal way. He’s a big guy and built like a truck.

Then as Foggy watches, he leans over the counter, grabs the poor server’s shirt and yanks, ripping it open and exposing her shoulder and bra.

“What?” he blinks, because he did not just see that, “that’s assault.”

Matt’s face is fixed and grim, “She’s slave, I think.”

It seems totally irrelevant for a moment then Foggy realizes that the moron deliberately ripped open her shirt to try and reveal her slave mark.

“Yeah probably,” he agrees distantly.

He has no idea how to explain what happens next. It’s none of their business and tangling with a loud angry adult who’s about twice his size is plain stupid. Except Foggy gets mad, already was mad truth be told, burning furious at the quiet hurt he’d heard in Matt’s voice, and the way Matt’d disintegrated into misery and he had been helpless to do anything to stop it. Foggy isn’t helpless now though. He storms through the door without a first thought, let alone a second.

“I think you should leave.”

Everyone stares at him, the other two customers who had been pretending to stare at the boards, the poor serving girl, the older woman just stepping out the back of the shop, and the angry moron, who glares at him, face curdled with anger, 

“What the fuck is to you?”

“You’re being a dick to this poor girl who’s been nothing but polite to you,” that’s a guess but he thinks it’s a pretty safe one.

“I’m not paying good money to be served by a zombie.”

“The only zombie I see here is you.”

“Liar!” yells the moron, which confuses Foggy but he’s busy jumping back to avoid the wild swing of the man’s fist and he’d be scared except there’s no space for that with all the anger inside him.

And then Matt’s there, somehow right in the moron’s face, holding him at bay with his cane shoved up into the moron’s chest.

“Get the hell out of here,” Matt snarls. “Or we’ll see what the cops say about you attacking the son of a free man.”

The weight of everyone’s stares grows. Foggy tosses his hair and attempts his best impression of Ricky Pemberton – you are all dirt beneath my feet.

There’s a pause where everything seems suspended in time. Foggy’s recovered from his anger and he’s very definitely scared now. He’s been punched before and it hurts. Yes he’s a wuss, he owns his wussiness. Nobody likes getting punched, it makes sense to avoid it where possible. There’s a chance, more than a chance really, he’s getting slightly hysterical and he absolutely cannot let it show.

The moron’s hands clench into fists.

“Try me,” growls Matt.

Foggy’s maybe a little scared of Matt right now, which is weird. It works though. The moron finally shows some sense and backs off, slamming out of the shop with a roar of frustrated anger.

Shaking himself off and checking he’s still in one piece, Foggy says, “Well that was unpleasant,” aware it’s a massive understatement but unable to think of anything else.

“Oh boys,” says the older woman, presumably the manager. “Thank you, but you shouldn’t have done that. If your owner finds out you he’ll beat you to half to death.”

“Tried that,” says Matt, “didn’t take.” 

Then he shudders and the edges in him seem to drop away and suddenly it’s Matt standing there again not some predator Foggy can’t recognize.

“Oh my God Matt, are you crazy? He’d make three of you. What were you thinking?”

Matt turns around and smiles at them sheepishly, “I was thinking he was going to hit you. What were _you_ thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking, I was just mad. But you, you need to stay out of stuff like that, how did you even know where he was?”

“The way he was shouting? How could I have missed him?”

That’s true enough. Foggy could have found him with his eyes closed standing on his head.

“Boys!” says the manager again. “Recriminations later, for now get back to your owner and start pretending you were never here.”

“Oh,” Matt rubs at his nose, “wasn’t lying about that. Son of a free man here.”

“No,” the manager stares at him and shakes her head, “I know a slave boy when I see one.”

“Yeah me, but not Foggy.”

Then it’s Foggy’s turn to squirm under her stare. He bites his lip to resist the urge to apologize for not being a slave.

“Maybe,” she concedes finally, “I would have guessed you were in bond but when you were happy to wade in like that, I figured you had to be a slave. So if you are free, then why did you step in?”

“Because he was being a dick.” He receives four extremely unconvinced looks from the manager, server, and even both the customers who have temporarily abandoned their shopping to stare at Foggy as if he’s turned bright purple and just hasn’t noticed yet.

“Matt, you’d tell me if I turned bright purple, right?”

“Nope,” says Matt cheerfully.

“Oops, I forgot, sorry. Don’t laugh at me, I’m having a stressful few minutes.”

“Why did you step in?” demands the manager, “Elizabeth isn’t going to have sex with you.”

“What? Who even is Elizabeth?” The server turns bright red. Oh right. Foggy smiles at her, “Hi Elizabeth, sorry that guy was a dick, I really don’t want to sleep you mostly because I’ve know you for about twenty seconds and I’m not quite that easy.”

Elizabeth looks like she wants to dissolve right into the floor. Foggy has sympathy with that feeling, he turns back to the manager to try and get the spotlight off her,

“Hi, I’m Foggy, this is Matt, nice to meet you.”

“I’m Belle, nice to meet you too, Foggy, who inexplicably stops people being dicks.”

Foggy blinks at a nice older lady using language like that, then blinks again when he realizes he used the language in the first place, his mom would kill him.

“It is not inexplicable. My dad has a store, I know all about crazy customers. I wasn’t going to let him act like that just cause Elizabeth’s a slave.”

“Not actually a slave,” says Elizabeth and then ducks as all the attention flips back to her.

Foggy had been making heroic efforts not to look at her torn shirt but now he can’t help flicking his gaze towards her bare shoulder. There’s no chip nestling between neck and collar bone but there is an ugly knot of scar tissue from where the chip has been levered out. Elizabeth quickly clutches her shirt together with one hand at her throat.

“Zombie,” she says, “since that man already made it clear.”

“Freed, but not yet out of bond,” Matt explains quietly, “not dead, but not alive either.”

“Oh.” Foggy struggles to recall what he can remember of slavery. He needs to do so much research, like yesterday. Okay, now he has it. When a slave is freed they have to put up a bond and spend ten years proving they’re an acceptable citizen before they’re completely free. Huh, zombie’s a pretty good term. 

“Oh, is that why he got so mad when I called him a zombie?”

“Pretty much,” says Belle. “He was a zombie by all accounts, but passed out of bond a few years back. So now he likes to cause trouble because he knows we won’t call the cops unless he actually gets violent.”

“But – ”

“Can’t risk a complaint, or our time in bond will be extended. Worse case they might decide to revoke our freedom altogether. I mean it’s unlikely, but why risk it.”

“And the cops aren’t any nicer to the zombies than they are to the dead men,” says one of the customers. Grumpy and itching at his neck, he realizes what he’s doing, looks at his hand in disgust and folds it away firmly, “You think I want that sort of trouble? It’s alright for _you_.”

“Hey,” says Matt, “Foggy didn’t have to do anything.”

Grumpy glowers but then says, “True, sorry kid.”

Belle flaps her hands at them, “Now you should scram before your Daddy figures out his slave is showing you round the zombie end of town and flips his lid.”

Foggy opens his mouth, and then stops, because Dad wouldn’t be mad or anything, but he’d definitely be unimpressed if he heard about this little adventure.

“Exactly,” she scowls, “you’ll be okay but your Matt will be sold before you can turn around.”

Foggy has a momentary panic over that because Dad wouldn’t… except if he thought it was the right thing to do he would, and –

– then he remembers it’s his name on the paperwork, Matt’s his, nobody can take him away and hurt him.

All the same, pushing Dad right now is probably a bad plan. Dad doesn’t lose his temper often, or at all really, but when he does everybody ducks.

“Come on Matt. Let’s go see if the library will order you books in braille.”

Matt smiles, small and shy.


	15. Chapter 15

Foggy loves the library. The main bit was built ages ago, high-vaulted with tall elegant windows that the librarians grumble about because the maintenance is horrendous but they’re a feature the City Council won’t let them remove. Foggy kinda understands their point, more books are always good, but the windows are really lovely. Then there are the two annexes bolted on, one an ugly two-floor square block and the other a large porta-cabin that was supposed to be replaced two years ago but the administration ran out of money.

He leads Matt carefully up the main steps and tells him how amazing it looks,

“Wait, is this bad? Telling you things look amazing when you can’t see them? It’s tactless isn’t it? Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” says Matt.

Foggy rolls his eyes because why was he expecting Matt to say anything else, “Yeah right.”

“No,” Matt’s chin sets mulishly, “I like hearing how much you enjoy things, it’s nice.”

Foggy considers him for a moment and decides that’s probably true. Matt is certainly looking thoroughly determined about it.

“Okay then,” he says, “I’ll keep going with the Nelson surround sound, but shout if you’re getting bored. I know I can get annoying.”

Matt’s face sets into even more violent lines and he tucks himself close to Foggy’s side as they dodge a woman struggling with a baby buggy and two toddlers.

“So what are your favorite books?” Matt asks.

“Don’t get me started. I like all of them. I guess Harry Potter was the big one I grew up with, until they banned it as abolitionist propaganda. Mrs Leggett, she’s our school librarian, goes to Canada to visit her sister every summer and she smuggled us back copies of the last three books. Um, don’t tell anybody that, please.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed Matt’s arm in thanks, “Right so Harry Potter’s out because I’ve still got the books but we’ll never find them in braille or on tape. Recently I’ve been reading a lot of Neil Gaimain, dammit, he’s banned too, though not exactly, they black-listed his last but one book and now you can’t find any of his books anywhere, but Mrs Leggett’s sister sends her copies if she asks. Maybe we can get her to send us some tapes.”

Foggy wracks his brains, it’s rather alarming how many of the books and authors he likes are banned. Thank goodness Mom and Dad never keep up with that sort of thing and Candace is only interested in her magazines that tell her fifteen ways to style her hair and how to dust her collarbones with glitter in just the right way – Foggy remembers that one particularly because the glitter stuck to the bathroom sink for days. Mom was not impressed.

“Tolkien,” he finally says with relief, “I bet you’d love the Hobbit. We’ll get you the Hobbit. They might even have the tape available in the library without having to order it.”

“Okay.” Matt doesn’t look particularly enthused and Foggy abruptly realizes he’s making assumptions. Just because Matt was a slave doesn’t mean there aren’t books he likes.

“What are your favorite books?”

Matt looks at him suspiciously like he expects anything he says to be taken down and used in evidence against him.

“Come on, tell me, if the library doesn’t have it I’m sure they’ll be able to order it.”

“I had, before,” Matt stumbles on his words and the step, then smoothly corrects himself, “I read Thurgood Marshall once, I thought he made some interesting points.”

“Oh,” Foggy bounces excitedly, “I know that one. Mrs Leggett recommended him when I told her I was thinking about going into law. He’s fascinating because the Protectionists always talk about what great work he did but they never say much else, we never studied him in school like Eastland or McClellan. And if you read Marshall’s actual words, he sounds nothing like them.”

“I know,” Matt clutches at his arm in his enthusiasm, “if you listen to what he actually says, he sounds like an abolitionist.”

“Exactly. Mrs Leggett said they’d have banned his book, but they were worried it would draw to much attention to it.”

“That’s why my dad bought it for me, he said it would be good for college, that anything they wanted to keep down had to be worth reading.”

“Your – ” dad, Foggy is about to say, but Matt’s face shuts down and his body stiffens up so fast the words freeze on his tongue. Matt hadn’t meant to say that, he realizes, hadn’t meant to speak of his dad. Matt became a slave at eleven as an unsupported minor. Foggy smacks his hand over his mouth before he can demand answers to the horribly intrusive questions bubbling on his tongue. None of your business Franklin Nelson, he tells himself sternly.

“Let’s go see if they have Thurgood Marshall in braille,” he says instead.

Matt’s smile is weak and horribly grateful.

Foggy decides the best thing to do is pretend Matt never slipped up, so he just bustles up to the desk. He knows most of the librarians because he did his voluntary service here, his school has a thing about giving back to the community, most of the boys make up a couple of teams and patronize the local schools at touch football but Foggy doesn’t play touch football since it tends to turn into thump football, so library.

He smiles at Mrs Braden, precise in her twin set. She has a degree in library skills and neatly and conscientiously adds B.A. whenever she signs her name.

“Foggy, how nice to see you, what are you looking for today?”

“Hi Mrs Braden, I’d like to order a copy of Thurgood Marshall’s Speeches and Observations in braille.”

“Braille?”

“Yes Matt here is blind.”

“Oh I’m so sorry to hear that, and he’s such a nice-looking boy too.”

Foggy blinks, not quite sure how to deal with that. Matt mutters, “He is not deaf,” but low enough that Mrs Braden doesn’t catch it.

“Does he have his own library card?”

“No, can you use mine, please”

“We should get him his own library card,” says Mrs Braden, “everyone should have access to books. Even if he is blind we have a very extensive catalogue of braille books that can be ordered and you know we had plenty of taped books available.”

“What sort of ID do you need? Do my parents need to sign something?”

“Why would your parents need to sign something?” Mrs Braden’s face wrinkles up, puzzled.

“Uh, I guess they wouldn’t,” Foggy forgot for a second that he is one in charge of Matt. He still doesn’t quite believe it’s actually possible. “I suppose it would be me.”

Mrs Braden looks even more puzzled. “Why would you need to sign anything?”

“To prove his address, and I am sort of in charge of him, or am I assuming again. Can Matt sign for himself? That would be cool.”

“I’m Foggy’s slave,” says Matt and there’s something nasty and hard in his voice and line of his body.

“Oh my goodness,” flutters Mrs Braden. “Foggy what are you thinking? Slaves can’t have a library card. We can’t afford to waste resources on them. They wouldn’t even appreciate it.”

Matt is so sharp-edged that Foggy thinks he’d cut himself if he touched him. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself to be an adult. The last couple of years arguing with the school administration have taught him to stay polite and to never fight a losing battle if he can meet his goal some other way.

“Matt would appreciate it, Mrs Braden, but if he can’t have a library card that’s fine. Please just use mine.”

“I’m not letting you order a book for a slave who can’t even read and deprive an actual person of the opportunity.”

Foggy breathes in and out to a one-two count. “Mrs Braden, I am allowed to order any book I chose. I wish to order Thurgood Marshall’s Speeches and Observations in braille, thank you.”

“Absolutely not. It would be unconscionable of me to – ”

Thankfully one of the other librarians, Mrs Ruane, tugging her straggling cardigan straight, comes over then, “Darlene, whatever is the matter. Foggy you’re not asking her to order _adult_ literature are you?” she teases with a heavy-handed wink.

“No, I would like to order Thurgood Marshall’s Speeches and Observations in braille, thank you.”

“Well I can’t see what the prob– ”

“For his slave,” snaps Mrs Braden.

“Oh, why, well that’s very sweet of you Foggy but that will be a bit advanced for him. Why don’t you start on something simpler? They have some very nice children’s books in braille.”

“That’s very kind of you Mrs Ruane, but I would like to order Thurgood Marshall’s Speeches and Observations in braille, thank you.”

“Hmm, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll order that Marshall for you and a couple of nice children’s books too, how does that sound?”

“That’s fine thank you Mrs Ruane.” Foggy doesn’t need to pick the kids’ books up and the cost of ordering books isn’t that bad. And if this conversation takes much longer he’s afraid Matt’s going to start splintering into pieces.

“Good, we’ll call you when they come in.”

“Thank you Mrs Ruane, come on Matt.” He pulls Matt away from the desk and behind a stack so they’re out of sight.

“Sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be. She’s probably right. It’s been years since I read braille, probably forgotten all of it. Hope you weren’t thinking you bought yourself a useful slave.”

“If you learned it once you can learn it again. We’ll get you a text book or something.”

Matt’s so tense he’s vibrating and for a second Foggy thinks Matt’s going to shove him away. Instead Matt retreats until his back is pressed into the stack and his hands are clutching for support at the shelves.

“I lied to you,” he hisses. “I never thought you’d actually buy me.”

“That’s okay, I’m more sensible than I look. Now can you hang on for two seconds while I grab a couple of audio books?”

Matt nods but doesn’t seem convinced.

Foggy hurries. He scans the choices, remembers Matt’s interest in law, and grabs two of John Grisham’s legal thrillers because they’ll do. He goes to the second desk, smiles briefly at Mrs Malley, and quickly collects his choices. When he gets back to Matt, Matt is still clinging onto the shelves.

He nudges Matt’s arm and offers his own, 

“Let’s go home.”


	16. Chapter 16

Matt’s quiet all the way back. Not that it’s much different because Matt is always quiet, but there’s an extra quality to the silence. It makes Foggy nervous but he’s not sure what he can do about it. He keeps talking because he doesn’t know how to stop but he’s pretty sure he’s not making much sense.

It’s a relief to step back into the house. He gets Matt settled on his bed with headphones and the ‘Devil’s Right Hand’. Matt looks like he’s waiting for the sting in the tail but Foggy has faith in Grisham’s ability to distract him.

He heads down to speak to his mom.

“Can I have Matt’s paperwork? I need to check some things.”

“Foggy,” his mom wipes her hands, and then cups them around his face, they’re cool from the water and Foggy feels a shiver work down his back.

“Mom?”

“Can I talk to you about Matt?”

“Sure.” He braces himself.

“Don’t look at me like that. You know I like Matt.”

“This isn’t how good conversations start, Mom. Can we just not please?”

“Oh Foggy, I just want what’s best for you. Both of you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And well, your dad and I agreed we didn’t really think this whole,” she stops and Foggy bites back a smile that she can’t say slave anymore either. It seems obscene now they know Matt, “business through. We wanted somebody who’d help you with college, not hold you back.”

“Mom, I’m not sending Matt back to that place, don’t even try.” It hurts that she’d try.

“No, not that,” she wraps her am around his shoulders and Foggy shifts uncomfortably under it, “Never that. You think I could live with myself if we sent him back there.”

”I _didn’t_ think that, no.” Foggy hates this whole conversation.

“Good. So I’ve called some people. Not the helpline people again, they’re dreadful, but people who actually care about them.”

“Sounding dangerously protectionist here Mom.”

“Foggy,” she scolds, “I am not the enemy.”

He shrugs his shoulders. He doesn’t know how to explain that it feels like the whole world has turned into his enemy when it comes to Matt.

“Anyway I called these people. There’s a charity, they help when people want to free them but can’t afford the bond. They take them and find them jobs so they can earn their bond money. They said Matt was so cheap he could be free in maybe five years if he worked hard.”

“No.”

“Foggy.”

“No,” he shakes his head for emphasis. “I don’t trust them.” Sure it sounded good but who knew what would actually happen to Matt. Adults could make things sound great but that didn’t mean they actually were. Foggy’s school won awards as a model institution but Foggy wouldn’t send anyone he liked there.

“You can meet them. Talk to them so you can understand how they can help make things fair for you _and_ Matt.”

“No.” That’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Nothing is ever going to make things fair for Matt. “No. What they even have Matt do? He’s blind and I doubt they’d spend any money to work around that. No.” He thinks of Matt’s slip and the way he mentioned college as if it was something he and his dad were working for. It might not be the way Matt ever intended, but he can still get to college.

“Just think about it, my treasure.”

“Yes Mom,” he says because he doesn’t want to argue about it anymore.

His mom sighs, “Just think about it.”

“Can I have Matt’s papers please?”

She sighs again and fetches them from the heap of papers that live on top of the microwave.

“Here. Do think about it seriously. You don’t want to worry about all this when you’re at college.”

“Thanks Mom.”

Foggy takes the papers and retreats to the living room. Mom’s right he doesn’t want to worry about this at college but he wants even less to worry about Matt out there on his own. At least if he’s with Foggy, Foggy can be sure he isn’t being hurt.

He checks the medical pages first. No allergies, thankfully, but a lot of medical speak Foggy doesn’t want to understand, he wishes he didn’t understand fracture either. He flicks through the booklet.

Oh God, there’s a picture of little Matt, dark-eyed and shattered. Foggy turns that page rapidly, he wasn’t supposed to see that. In fact he shouldn’t be looking at any of this. It’s not fair. He truly intends to put the booklet aside and forget about it but the next page that falls open is a picture of Matt, older than before but still young and scrawny. Matt’s naked lying on the floor, it’s actually two pictures one from the front and one from the back, when Foggy can focus on something other than Matt he can see a booted foot in the corner of one frame where they kicked him over. 

It’s an admission picture. From the words below the trader took it so he could prove Matt was in bad condition when he took him on and it wouldn’t be his fault if Matt died. Because Matt looks, he looks dead. His ribs, there’s, Foggy can actually make out the imprint of a shoe, a fancy man’s one with a pointed toe and distinct heel. 

His back is worse

Foggy has to stare at the ceiling and breathe through his mouth until he can control the impulse to tear the picture to shreds. He blinks rapidly but he doesn’t think the water spilling from his eyes is going to clear the image from his mind.

He flips the page without looking and then reads without thinking simply to fill his mind with the soothing black type on white page and tries not to think about how it looks like black blood on white skin.

This was Matt’s punishment for interfering with his owner’s sixteen year old daughter. Foggy has a second to be shocked by that, before it strikes him the Matt in that picture was maybe fourteen. He reads a little closer and there’s a note that they deluded themselves into thinking they were in love, and he’s horrified all over again. This must be Matt’s first love and it ended like that.

But maybe this is something Foggy can fix. This girl, whatever her name is, she must be out there somewhere. Foggy can find her.


	17. Chapter 17

Fired up with a plan where he can actually _do_ something to help Matt, Foggy pulls the file closer, planning to study it for clues. 

And then his hands stall on the motion. Only moments ago he’d decided this was too private for him to read. Can he really paw over the whole thing, even if it is to help Matt? Maybe he should speak to Matt instead.

It would be great to surprise Matt, the thought gives him a warm little thrill, but there’s a creeping suspicion that Matt wouldn’t like to be surprised. Matt’s a nervy cat of a person, surprise him, good or bad, and he’ll be gone leaving nothing but scratches behind.

Besides Foggy’s rubbish at keeping secrets. He wants to tell Matt right now. Wants to show him something good can happen. Foggy’s free until college starts, they have the whole summer, they could head out to California and find the girl together. Foggy’s supposed to be earning money helping out at Dad’s store but he’s sure his parents would go along with it, he might even been able to persuade them to pay for their tickets now they’ve decided Matt’s not such a great plan.

He bounces up the stairs. Flinging open the door, he catches Matt scrabbling frantically at the CD player and blinking red eyes. He spends a frantic minute trying to remember the plot of ‘Devil’s Right Hand’ and if there’s anything triggering – he has to pay more attention to this stuff – when Matt manages to turn the CD player on and immediately has to yank the headphones from his ears as it blares out at far too high volume.

Foggy takes a breath of relief that he hasn’t accidentally asked Matt to listen to a description of slaves being hurt, then realizes that means Matt’s been sitting here quietly crying.

“Matt,” he says.

Matt gulps, hunching in on himself, “You said I should be on the bed,” the last few words run together and he looks horrified at his own daring.

After taking a moment to regulate his voice Foggy says, “Exactly, I did, so I’m glad to see you there.” He feels incredibly stupid _praising_ Matt. It’s sick, Matt doesn’t need his praise, Matt is great just as he is. Except Matt uncurls and manages a small smile.

“Good. That’s good,” Foggy repeats, and Matt is almost sitting up straight now, legs unfolded in front of him. Now that it no longer feels like he’s threatening a scared kid, Foggy steps closer and takes a seat on the bed,

“Hey, I wanted to tell you about this great idea I had.”

Matt’s legs reflexively scrunch up to his chest and the smile on his face freezes. Foggy was definitely right about not surprising Matt.

“It’s all good, I promise,” he reassures. “I was looking at your folder, which, yeah, I probably shouldn’t have, but I needed to know if anything was going to make you sick and I wasn’t sure you’d tell me.”

Matt’s head is tilted and he’s clearly listening intently but he mostly looks confused, which might be because Foggy’s rambling like an idiot.

“Alright, the point is, I read about your girlfriend, and I think we should go find her.”

Matt blinks at him.

“I know it might be weird because technically you belong to me now, but I can sell you, or transfer ownership, or something. They nearly killed you because of her,” Foggy’s voice maybe wobbles a bit then because the thought of Matt being hurt like that because of _him_ … he shakes his head, “You both deserve a better ending.”

Matt blinks again, then suddenly all the color leaches from his skin,

“Not Miss Kendra,” he gasps, “please not Miss Kendra,” he scrabbles forward, slipping and sliding on the comforter until skids right off the bed and washes up at Foggy’s feet, clutching at his knees.

“Please, please don’t sell me to Miss Kendra. If you want to sell me to that respite place, it’s okay. But not Miss Kendra, please.” He’s dead white and shaking.

“Matt?” Foggy is hopelessly confused.

Moaning with fear Matt collapses in on himself, hands curled protectively over his head.

Foggy still doesn’t understand, but this isn’t right. Easing himself off the bed onto the floor he hooks his hands under Matt’s arms and hauls until Matt was sort of slumps over his lap and he can get his arms around him.

“Hey, hey, I’m not selling you to anybody and definitely not to anybody who upsets you like this. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying right here with me.” Shit, did that sound threatening, why wasn’t there a manual on this stuff. “You’re staying with me and we’re going to college, we’re going to become lawyers and make the law catch up with the right thing.” 

Matt’s head comes up a little at the mangled Marshall quote. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes.”

“And you won’t sell me to Miss Kendra?”

“I won’t sell you to anybody and definitely not to this Kendra person. Might still track her down and punch her in the face a bit.” Foggy won’t really do that because you don’t hit girls but he might ask Valentina, in the year below him at school and as fiercely intense as a coiled spring, if she has any ideas.

“No, no Miss Kendra,” Matt shivers. 

“Ssh okay, no Miss Kendra.” Matt relaxes infinitesimally and Foggy takes the opportunity to tug at him until their positioned more comfortably. Matt’s head is pressed close to his and Matt whispers quietly,

“Miss Kendra liked pretending to like me.”

“Ah well,” Foggy forces himself not to comment, because he doesn’t know the circumstances, but how could anybody not like Matt?

“She thought being a slave was sexy.”

Foggy stares, “Miss Kendra was clearly a complete idiot.” He’s guilty himself of under-estimating the horribleness, but at least it never occurred to him to think it was _sexy_. “Seriously?”

“Uh huh. She thought it was tragic and romantic and it made her hot.”

“She _said_ that to you.”

Matt nods against his chest.

Foggy genuinely cannot believe some people exist, “Wait, tragic and romantic, is she the genius who changed your name to Tristam?”

“Yes, when Mr Robert, her father, started having me wait on him, Miss Kendra said Matt was too bland and boring and I should be called Tristam instead. Mr Robert always called me boy so he didn’t care.”

“You ever want to go burn their place down, let me know and I’ll buy you the gas.” Arson’s not that morally wrong, right? Foggy’s not actually going to set Mr Robert on fire, much as he deserves it. He was the one who left the imprint of his shoe on Matt’s ribs. Arson’s mild.

Matt pulls back, rocking his head from side to side as if trying to take all of him in, “You’re telling the truth.”

“Sure am.” Foggy’s not a violent person and he’s never really hated anyone before – he tells people he hates Brett Mahoney, for fuck’s sake – but he’s a fast learner when he needs to be.

“We can’t do that. Mr Robert wasn’t a bad owner really.”

“Matt.”

“No. I mean, he liked jokes but he could be really nice.”

Foggy’s too afraid to ask what ‘really nice’ actually means. He’s frightened it’s something miserable and sad like some days Matt didn’t get hurt at all, or even more frighteningly awful like Matt was petted after being forced to have sex and Foggy’s getting keener on arson by the minute.

“He was much better than Mr David.”

Which, yeah, he definitely didn’t want to know that. However bad Mr Robert was, there was somebody _worse_.

“The others liked him. I should have kept my head down better. It was my fault.”

“It was not your fault. Absolutely nothing was your fault.”

Matt flinches in his arms and Foggy realizes he might have been a bit loud about that.

“Ssh, it’s okay. I’m not mad. But it was not your fault.”

“I let Miss Kendra kiss me.”

That is not an encouraging way to phrase things. Foggy hugs Matt a little tighter, “Could you have stopped her?”

“She would have been mad. But Mr Robert got mad anyway. And then he made me –”

“Matt?”

“Made me get on my knees.”

“Uh huh,” Foggy nods because he’s not going to forget Matt dropping to his knees in a hurry.

“And Miss Kendra was so, so mad. After Mr Robert had – had finished punishing me she came and found me and she said I was vile and disgusting she hoped I rotted and she’d make sure her daddy put on my records that I needed cock to keep me in my place. That’s why Miss Evangeline bought me as a party favor.”

There’s a weird moment where Foggy isn’t sure what’s going on. He can see that he and Matt are still sitting together by his bed but he feels completely unconnected, floating far away and serene, and then Matt’s patting his chest urgently and saying, 

“Foggy, Foggy,”

And Foggy takes a great shattering breath and suddenly he’s back, crushed by the weight of his pounding heartbeat and sweaty body.

“Foggy, what happened? You just stopped.” Matt keeps patting him and the touch is reassurance that he exists. Foggy drags his hands over Matt’s shoulders so he can feel him solid and real.

After a moment he has his thoughts back in order although he still can’t focus on what Matt just said because he can feel everything starting to slip away again.

“I am not,” he pants, “being much help to you.”

“I don’t understand, Foggy. What do you want?”

Foggy wants a lot of things. “I want you to understand that I am not going to sell you.”

“But, I mean, your parents, if you need to sell me to that respite place, I understand.”

“No, never.” He’s going to have a hard time simply letting Matt out of his sight. “My parents don’t understand but they will. How do you even know about that anyway?”

“I, uh, overheard them talking.” Matt shifts uncomfortably. He must have been listening at doors. Foggy can’t blame him.

“It doesn’t matter what you heard. I am not selling you ever. I promise. Not unless you ask me to.”

Matt pulls back, clearly trying to decide whether to believe him or not.

“I promise. Here, look, I pinkie-swear.” He tugs one of Matt’s hands up and links their pinkies. “I will never, ever sell you.”

He squeezes their fingers together victoriously when Matt smiles and nods. Now they’re getting somewhere.

 

Matt believes him. As Foggy squeezes their pinkie fingers together, he is telling the truth and Matt believes him. Foggy won’t sell him.

Really it’s a silly thing to be grateful for, because if Foggy ever wants to get rid of him he’ll have to put him down or have him killed, but Matt’s grateful all the same. He’s so tired of being passed around he doesn’t think he’d survive Foggy selling him on.

There’s something peaceful in knowing this is it.

He rubs his face against Foggy’s shoulder in thanks and settles a little closer. His eyes flutter shut and a quiet darkness slowly enfolds him.


	18. Chapter 18

The knock on the door startles Matt awake and he scrabbles on instinct away from the arms holding him.

“Ouch,” says Foggy.

Matt freezes, he’s crouched low on the bed. Foggy is grunting with the effort of pulling himself from the floor to his feet. Matt’s not sure but he has an unnerving feeling he caught Foggy with his elbow, or maybe a foot.

He whispers, “Sorry,” and wishes for something more. Foggy shouldn’t be hurt. 

“It’s okay, I knew you were a cat. I’m coming, Mom,” he complains at a further knock and walks stiffly to open the door.

“Everything alright?” says Mrs Anna.

“Everything’s fine. Is it dinner time?”

“Nearly, and we have a surprise.” She puts her hand on Foggy’s arm slightly too enthusiastically because Matt can hear the whump of it. He curls a little tighter into his huddle, surprises are not good, and Mrs Anna is nervous, heartbeat fluttering high and fast.

“Oh,” says Foggy slowly.

“Rosalind is taking us out for dinner, isn’t that nice.”

“Mom, you hate Rosalind.”

“Don’t be silly. Of course I don’t hate Rosalind.” Her heartbeat steadies so that’s not exactly a lie but Matt doesn’t think it’s quite the truth either.

“Why is she even here? I thought I was supposed to be having lunch with her sometime next week and, oh hang on a minute, did you seriously? you did, didn’t you? you called _Rosalind_ on me. _Mom!_ ”

“Calm down, treasure. We just, that is, your father thought Rosalind might be able to offer her experience on the matter. She has had Eloise for years after all.”

“Mom,” Foggy huffs in frustration, “Oh never mind.”

“Foggy?”

“Don’t worry about it.” His long hair flutters as he shakes his head. “I can’t believe you called Rosalind. Dad must be completely freaked out.”

“We don’t know what we’re doing. That has been made very obvious. There’s nothing wrong with asking advice.”

“Me and Matt are figuring things out, aren’t we Matt buddy?”

Matt sits up hastily at the question, “Yes Foggy,” he agrees. He focuses on the solid reassuring presence, Foggy is right there and Matt is never going to be sold ever, he nods firmly to add emphasis to his answer.

“Oh my treasure, I love you so much.” Mrs Anna grabs Foggy in a hug as Foggy squeaks in surprise. Matt smiles. Then Mrs Anna swoops towards him and Matt freezes in readiness, but Mrs Anna stops,

“I’m sorry Matt.”

Matt is confused all over again.

“May I hug you?”

Why is she even asking, “Of course.”

“Oh dear. Poor little treasure, it will get better I promise.” And then her arms slowly and carefully curl around him, tightening slightly before releasing him.

Matt’s skin prickles uneasily, he doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong, but something isn’t right. He edges towards Foggy and is relieved when Foggy reaches out and snags his wrist, pulling him close.

Mrs Anna sighs but she sounds happier, “Now be nice to your poor father. He’s trying his best.”

“If he’s looking for niceness,” Foggy mutters, “he called the wrong person.”

“And try and be polite to Rosalind. She is your mother.”

“Biological. And I’ll be as polite is she is.”

As Mrs Anna turns away she says very quietly, “oh dear,” and then at normal volume, “Eloise called to say they should be here soon.”

“Brace yourselves.”

“Foggy!” but Mrs Anna doesn’t actually sound cross. “Now make yourself look presentable and come downstairs.”

“Fine.”

Mrs Anna leaves and Foggy starts to rattle through clothes hangers.

“What are you looking for?” Matt asks, then flinches and covers his mouth as if he could pull the words back in.

Foggy doesn’t notice, deep in his closet, “Rosalind likes me to wear smart clothes and she’s enough of a, a witch if I don’t that it’s easier to just wear the clothes. I hate that Mom has to spend the money on them though. Rosalind does give me ‘appropriate’ clothes as presents but they’re always two sizes too small. They’ll probably fit you though.”

He sounds unhappy. Matt’s lips set in a firm line. Foggy shouldn’t sound unhappy.

“Here we go. I kept the one from last birthday, it’s a nice suit, and I might fit in it one day, right?” He hands Matt a hanger and suit. “Put that on, and practice your smile.”

Matt feels self-conscious as he strips down and he doesn’t understand why. It’s better when he hears the rustle of Foggy changing his clothes and doesn’t understand that either.

“Can you do ties?” asks Foggy, “Or I should do yours for you?”

Matt doesn’t get what he means until he hears the thwick and swish of Foggy tying his own tie. He’s already shaking his head,

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, I can do yours for you. Ties are stupid anyway. Unfortunately they’re pretty much compulsory for lawyers. Here we go, don’t scratch me.”

Matt’s head comes up indignantly because he’s not going to hurt Foggy, and then a strip of cloth is looping around his throat and he has to knot his hands together to stop himself reacting. Miss Evangeline always tied them down which made things so much easier.

But Foggy isn’t hurting him. He’s standing behind Matt now, hands over his shoulders and Matt’s back prickles all over at the closeness and he locks his muscles to stop himself squirming away.

“You need to hold the under strip and pull on the knot to get it to settle at your neck. Don’t do it too tight.”

Matt waits until Foggy’s walked away before he untwists his fingers and flexes the cramp out of them. It feels like he’s voluntarily strangling himself but he shifts the knot as he was told.

“Perfect,” says Foggy, “you’ll slay them in court.”

Matt strokes the soft cloth of the suit, “Slaves can’t be lawyers.”

“Who says? I bet they never bothered to make a rule about it. I know Eloise is qualified to practice law, but Rosalind would never let anyone else stand up in court if she could help it. You and me though, we’re a team, right?”

“Right,” says Matt uncertainly. 

“Oh and the final touch.” Foggy scrabbles through a drawer, and holds something out to him, “Sun-glasses. I bought them cause they look cool, but they don’t look cool one me, you try them.”

Matt fumbled then accepted the round-lensed glasses and slid them on.

“Now that’s perfect.” Foggy’s heart gives an odd little flip. “You better be careful or Rosalind will be adopting you instead.”

Shaking his head, Matt backs up hastily, tugging at the sleeves of the suit. Downstairs the doorbell rings.

“No, no, don’t look so worried. You’re with me. We agreed, no take backs.” Foggy caught his hand and gently linked their little fingers. “You and me, right?”

Matt nods determinedly. No more selling.

“Come on, before Rosalind gets mad.”

He quickly straightens his suit and checks his glasses are in place.

“You look great, you don’t need to fuss.”

Matt wants to fuss, “What color is it?”

“Damn I should have told you, dark blue jacket and pants, white shirt, black tie. Oh and the sunglass-lenses are red.”

Matt smiles, “I like red.”

“Foggy!” calls Mr Edward, and Foggy sighs heavily,

“Now we really have to go.”

Matt obediently follows Foggy back to the living room. As well as Mrs Anna and Mr Edward there are two new heartbeats, he sniffs, female heart beats. He can’t smell any blood so it’s hard to pick out the slave but one of the perfumes is this overpowering mess bludgeoning his sinuses so he figures she must Rosalind. 

It doesn’t make sense but free people wear the nastiest scents. Matt doesn’t understand how they can bear to smell themselves sometimes, at least antiseptic is a clean surgical strike. Miss Evangeline’s guests all wore horrible scents, once particular cologne made Matt throw up, that did not go well.

Presumed-Rosalind says, “Franklin, how lovely to see you.” She rings with insincerity like a cracked glass. Sometimes people lie so often even their own bodies aren’t sure if they’re telling the truth.

Foggy says, “It’s lovely to see you too.” He’s not telling the truth but he’s not quite lying either.

“So let’s see him then.”

Matt forces himself not to flinch as a hand grabs his neck, thumb pushing against his jaw bone to force his face up.

“Hey, leave Matt alone.” Foggy pulls him back and then steps between him and Rosalind.

“Well, you’re going to have to get over that ridiculous possessiveness but otherwise, very nice. I’m pleasantly surprised by your good taste. Or was that you Anna? I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Rosalind!” Mrs Anna’s face has gone hot. “Matt was Foggy’s choice.”

“I’m impressed. I might have to borrow him.”

“I don’t think so,” Foggy backs up so Matt is firmly behind him. Matt puts his hand on his arm.

“Edward you need to discourage that sort of attitude, it’s very unattractive.”

“I don’t care about that,” snaps Foggy, “and it isn’t Dad’s decision. Matt’s mine.”

Matt’s hand tightens its grip on Foggy’s arm. He’s Foggy’s and Foggy isn’t going to sell him.

“Oh for goodness’ sake. I suppose I should have realized you’d be as possessive as a toddler with one toy. And you’re forgetting that the money to buy him came from me.”

“And I forgot you’re incapable of giving a gift without strings.” Foggy’s body is humming with anger. “Or rather I hoped for once there were no strings. But it’s fine, you can have your money back, give me a moment and I’ll cut you a check.”

“Don’t be ridiculous darling. You can’t possibly afford to give me my money back.”

“Actually Rosalind, he can,” says Mrs Anna. Matt’s surprised to hear anger in her voice too. “I’m not having you hold it over his and Matt’s heads while you make filthy insinuations.”

“Insinuations? I can be a lot clearer about what I’ll do to him if it will make you happier.” Rosalind chuckles throatily, “Really Anna, your face, we’re all adults here.”

Mr Edward sighs, “Anna, she doesn’t mean it. Rosalind, stop being provoking.”

“Of course I mean it. He’d be such fun to play with. I should put him through his paces anyway. Make sure he’s good enough for Franklin since you and Anna are far too depressingly dull to do it yourselves.”

Matt takes a hiccupy breath. He hadn’t realized how much he’d trusted he wouldn’t have to do that again until now.

“Hey Matt, Matty,” Foggy’s hand curves gently over his cheek. “What’s the Matt-rule?”

“Uh,” for a frantic second he’s forgotten and he remembers with a grateful gasp, “No sex of any sort, at all, under any circumstances.”

“Were there any exceptions?”

“No,” he says more confidently. He remembers, no sex of any sort, at all, under any circumstances.

“So if someone tells you to have sex, what do you say?”

Matt thinks about that for a moment, “I’m not allowed to,” he tries.

“Exactly. And if somebody tries to make you, you come and find me. You got that? I don’t care what they tell you, you come and find me. Understand?”

Matt nods. A great shivery wave of desperate gratitude overwhelms him. He wants to drop to his knees and suck Foggy into his mouth and have Foggy’s hands run through his hair like he’s something precious. “I want to say thank you,” he whispers.

“Oh? Oh shit, okay, give me a moment, I’ll figure something out. You don’t need to do that anymore.” Foggy’s hand slides up and into his hair. Matt trembles and ducks his head to hide his face against Foggy’s neck.

“It’s okay,” Foggy whispers, “I’ve got you.”

And Matt feels so safe he wants to cry.


	19. Chapter 19

Behind him Matt can hear Mr Edward’s body getting angry and he presses a little closer to Foggy.

“Rosalind, he is a _child_.”

She shrugs her shoulders, “He’s a slave. It’s not like he’s so young he’d be no use to me.”

“Rosalind,” Mr Edward growls, “Stop it before I throw you out. Foggy has told you, and I’m telling you, you do not touch Matt. If it’s going to be an issue, then you can have your money back.”

“You keep saying that darling, but you don’t have the money.”

“Foggy had a college fund before you came along. I’m not saying your contribution wouldn’t be a help, but it is not essential.”

“Darling, you’re welcome to whatever was left over after purchasing the slave, it might buy you a couple of dinners at those little places you find so charming.”

“Fine. I’ll give you the money for Matt, everything else goes in Foggy’s college fund. That sits better with me anyway.” Mr Edward crosses the room and pulls out a drawer, a pen scrapes across paper for a moment, the paper tears and Mr Edward says, “There, one check for seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t buy even the most worthless slave for less than a thousand. Oh Anna honey, tell me you didn’t? Do you have to go straight to the bargain bin for everything?”

“Edward and I are very satisfied with Matt,” but Mrs Anna’s heartbeat is jumping all over the place.

“I know you’re used to other people’s leftovers, but you think you’d have a little more care for my son’s education.”

Foggy bristles all over, “Why am I only your son when you want to dig at Mom?”

“I quite thought that was mutual Franklin, as well as being beside the point. Anna, did you really buy a throwaway for my son?”

Matt can feel himself shake, “I am not a throwaway,” he hisses. Because even snuff-bait has a certain value, better than being a nothing.

“You’re mine,” Foggy reassures. He links their pinkie fingers together, and yes, he’s Foggy’s, never going to be anyone else’s because Foggy isn’t going to sell him.

Rosalind tuts under her breath, “I honestly cannot believe you people. I gave you enough to buy one of the best study-aids on the market and instead you picked this trash. Did you do that to deliberately spite me?”

“Matt was Foggy’s choice,” repeats Mrs Anna.

“At least this is fixable. We’ll get rid of this one and buy a real study-aid who actually stands a chance of getting Franklin through college.”

“I am not selling Matt,” says Foggy, finger tightening around Matt’s.

“Of course not honey, you haven’t a hope in hell of convincing anyone to part with cash for that. He’s disposable, just get rid of him and we’ll start again.”

“Stop talking about Matt like that,” Foggy drops Matt’s hand to curve his arm around Matt’s chest and tuck him in behind the protective bulk of his body. Matt stumbles into place, he feels raw all over and doesn’t understand why. He knows he’s worthless, why should hearing it aloud make any difference. He presses his forehead into Foggy’s back and just breathes.

“Rosalind this is a very inappropriate conversation,” says Mr Edward, thunder rolling below the low tone. “If Foggy no longer wants Matt then Anna and I will take him.”

“If that’s what floats your boat, fine, that’s sorted. Let’s move on. Obviously I am going to have to supervise the process more carefully. Eloise, when do I have some free time?”

As her slave pulls out a leather organizer, Matt feels everything start to slip sideways. He shakes his head frantically, no, no, no, he’s Foggy’s, Foggy is keeping him, he _is_.

“You all shut up,” Foggy shouts. 

And there’s suddenly silence.

Matt can feel Foggy trembling and he presses closer trying to comfort.

“You’re all wrong,” Foggy’s voice is quiet and wobbly, “Matt’s mine, he’s staying with me. I don’t want anyone else. If we’re talking about getting me through college, that money’s going to be more useful as living expenses so I don’t have to work during the semesters.”

“Franklin, I do not have time for your gross sentimentality.”

“I am not changing my mind.” Foggy’s shaking worse than ever. Matt wraps his arms around Foggy’s waist and tries to will encouragement into him.

“You always do eventually,” says Rosalind, “and this is positively tiresome. Stop being difficult. I only want what’s best for you.”

“No you don’t. And even if you did, I don’t care. I get to decide for me.”

Rosalind sighs heavily, “I can see you’re not ready to be reasonable. We will revisit this topic at a later date. For now let’s go to dinner before we miss our reservations.”

Foggy takes a deep breath.

“No,” says Mr Edward, “She’ll figure it out eventually Foggy, for now let’s go and have a nice dinner.”

Foggy’s shoulders hunch up with reluctance, “I don’t want to go.”

“Son please. You don’t see her nearly enough. She’s your mother.”

“Biological,” mutters Foggy, and then, “Fine.”

“Thank you.”

“But she’s has to stop being mean to Matt.”

“Really,” says Rosalind, “as if they would accept slaves at _Le Chien Bleu_. He can wait in the car with Eloise.”

“No. If he can’t go to dinner, Matt will stay home.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Rosalind bites out the words, “Can we go now, or do you have to fuss over your slave some more.”

“I’m fine,” Matt whispers hastily, not wanting to cause Foggy anymore trouble. “I’ll go to your room and stay there. I’ll be fine.”

“Sure?”

Matt stretches out for Foggy’s hand without thought, searching for reassurance. Foggy understands, he links their fingers and squeezes lightly. Matt smiles weakly.

“Okay go,” says Foggy, “I’ll try not to be too jealous.” He helps Matt reach the wall with his hand and Matt uses that to keep himself straight, trailing his fingers against the wall as he makes his way back upstairs.

Behind him, Foggy and his parents start down the stairs. Rosalind huffs her breath and says to Eloise, “I swear I will never understand that child.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around in time,” Eloise comforts.

“He’s never been so intractable before. Still we’ll see. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Matt hides behind the door of Foggy’s bedroom until they leave with a tip-tap of stiletto heels. Then he stands in the center of the room by the bed and extends his arms out as far as he can. The air is still and quiet around him. Outside the walls is the bustle and noise of the city but in here is the most silence he has known in years. No people, no heartbeats, only calm.

He blinks his wet eyes and breathes deeply. No thick stench of unwashed bodies crammed too close, no pain no blood. Abruptly his legs don’t want to hold him up anymore and he sits down on the bed with a whump that sends up a rush of Foggy-scent.

It’s nice he decides, smells of home and safety. He stretches out his back just because he can and fills his lungs.

The pleasure cuts off sharply when he hears the tip-tap of spikey heels. They stop outside the Nelson’s front door and then tip-tap up the stairs.

Matt hurries out of Foggy’s room because he doesn’t want the intruder’s presence contaminating the space.

“What are you doing here?” he demands.

“Is that anyway to speak to your superiors, boy,” says Rosalind.

Matt bites his lip. He knows better, he does really, even if he can’t stand the way she made Foggy tremble, “Can I help you ma’am?”

“So you do have some manners. It could be worse. Now let’s get down to business.”

“Ma’am?”

“Franklin tells me he won’t sell you without your consent, which really is just like that exasperating boy. So I want you to ask him to sell you to me.”

Matt rears back in rejection of the mere idea.

“Now don’t you be tiresomely over-sentimental too. I’m prepared to offer you a good deal. You work for me for, say five years, and I will put up the bond money to have you freed.”

“Contracts with slaves are unenforceable.” It’s not like Matt hasn’t heard slaves wailing over broken promises from owners who’d changed their minds, assuming they ever intended to honor the commitment in the first place.

“Smart boy.” The words are sharp enough to cut. “Owners can sign contracts though. I will sign a contract with one of those Slave Rescue Agencies. You’ll have your freedom guaranteed.” 

Freedom isn’t something Matt has actually conceptualized, not in relation to himself. To have it dangled in front of him like carrot is more befuddling than tempting, but still actual real freedom…

“Why?” he asks.

“Why do you care? Do you want your freedom or not? You won’t get it from Franklin, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s far too attached at the moment, and once he loses interest, well he isn’t going to care what happens to you.”

That might be true, but Matt’s not stupid,

“Why?” he insists.

“Because the exasperating boy is attached and I want to detach him. You’re just going to hold him back. Come on boy, you seem fond enough of Franklin, you don’t want to ruin his chances at college, do you?”

No, Matt doesn’t want that. The last thing he wants is to ruin things for Foggy. But something about this conversation makes his gut twist uneasily.

“Three years,” he challenges.

“Fine, three years. Do we have a deal?” She’s full of anticipation and burgeoning triumph.

Matt feels even queasier. She gave in too easy. “And Foggy won’t mind?” he tests.

“Of course he won’t.”

His senses still can’t tell if she’s lying or not but Matt calls lie regardless. There’s just something in the way she’s standing, the way her blood’s pulsing like somebody about to cross the winning line. It’s the winning that’s important here, and Matt isn’t important enough to win against, Rosalind wants to win against Foggy.

Matt’s not having any part of that.

“No,” he says.

“What?”

“No, I’m not doing it.” He’s not going to make Foggy lose.

“I’m offering you freedom here.”

“And?” Freedom’s a nice dream but this is reality. Anyway he doesn’t trust her not to find some way to turn it around back on him. She’s the sort of sly owner who enjoys tricking slaves into their own downfall. Miss Evangeline was just like that. Matt had refused to fall for any of her traps, he’s not going to fail now, not when Rosalind just wants to use him to hurt Foggy.

“You think Foggy’s going to keep fussing over you like this. He’ll be bored of you in no time and you’ll spend your days at the boarding kennels. You can’t possibly trust him.”

“Maybe not,” says Matt cheerful and slightly delirious, “but I don’t have to trust him. I just have to trust him more than you. And there’s nobody who’d have any trouble with that. Not after they’ve known you five minutes.”

“You are seriously turning down your freedom? I have the number for Slave Rescue, I can have somebody here with a contract in less than an hour.”

“No,” Matt’s getting surer of his decision by the second. It’s not even hard anymore because it’s not like he’s really turning down his freedom. She’d cheat him somehow and enjoy doing it.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not going to help you hurt Foggy. Now are we done?”

“That’s your last word?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She stares at him for a long moment, then cackles a laugh, 

“Damn, I’m actually impressed.”

Matt feels the ground shift beneath his feet, “Ma’am?”

“Not sure I’ve met a slave who’s such a stubborn shit. You might have even more grit than Eloise. Are you sure you don’t want me to buy you? I promise you I’m much more fun than Franklin and the saintly Anna.”

“Ma’am?” Matt asks blankly, caught off-guard by the sudden change.

“No? Oh well, it might be even better this way. I guess you’re the reason Franklin’s suddenly grown a spine. It will be interesting to see if he can keep it up.”

“Please stop insulting Foggy.”

“Well you’re sanctimonious enough to fit in around here that’s for certain. I’ll leave you to be virtuous in peace. I hope you don’t regret your decision.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Stubborn shit. We shall see.”

Matt waits until he hears the front door click closed behind her and then retreats back to Foggy’s bedroom. He pauses, but no, Foggy was very clear, so he lies down at the bed and focuses on the empty expanse of the ceiling. He hadn’t thought of freedom before, but he’s thinking about it now, and inside him something that was amputated long ago aches like a phantom limb.


	20. Chapter 20

Foggy obediently waves goodbye to Rosalind and Eloise after they drop them off two blocks from the house. He feels nothing but relief.

“Come on,” says Mom, “let’s go home.” Foggy wraps his arm around her shoulders, still caught off-guard that he’s tall enough to do that. Dad walks behind them, Foggy thinks he’s happier about things but he’s looking Rosalind-shocked again so it’s hard to tell, probably best to leave him be for the moment. 

Biting his tongue to stop himself from launching into another _why do I have to keep seeing Rosalind when she just upsets us all_ argument, Foggy thinks that maybe he is growing up after all.

“I hope Matt’s alright,” says Mom, “we shouldn’t really have left him on his own like that.”

“I thought you wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible,” Foggy is possibly still a little bitter about that.

“I don’t want to get rid of him at all,” Mom says quickly, sounding like she means it, “but you shouldn’t have all that responsibility.”

“Isn’t everything geared towards getting teenagers to be responsible?”

“Foggy,” then she stops and just kisses his forehead.

“Mom,” he hugs her back. “Mom, he was going to sleep on the floor before I stopped him. I don’t trust him with anyone else.” At least if Matt is with him, Foggy can be sure he isn’t being hurt.

“Okay,” says Mom.

“I promised him I’m never going to sell him.”

“Okay my treasure. We’ll figure this out.”

“You don’t need to worry. Matt’s my responsibility.” He already has a plan, he’s going back to the diner that sold baklava to ask the lady there for advice. He’ll trust whatever she says way more than anything out of Rosalind’s mouth.

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Mom sounds very tired so Foggy doesn’t say anything else and they walk the rest of the way back in silence.

 

The house is quiet and Foggy has a momentary flip of panic that Matt’s not there, but then there’s shuffling footsteps and Matt appears at the head of stairs,

“Foggy? You okay?”

“Matt,” he tries to swallow down his alarm because he’s being ridiculous, Matt wouldn’t go anywhere. “You have a good evening?” he asks, defaulting to polite nonsense questions because he has to say something. “What did you have for dinner?”

Matt’s face goes blank, “I didn’t have dinner,” he says, sounding insulted of all things, “you told me to go to your room and I did.”

Foggy swings his arms desperately because he absolutely cannot call Matt an idiot, no matter how much he wants to.

“Okay,” he says finally, “Get down here and we’ll find you something.”

“I don’t need anything. I’ve eaten lots today.”

He wants to yell at Matt that this is goddamn order, get down here and eat something, but he’s already quietly decided that giving Matt orders has to be kept to an absolute minimum, even if it’s for Matt’s own good. He doesn’t want to give Matt orders, or to have Matt obey them, it makes him feel sick. He recognizes he has to do something, because Matt doesn’t understand the normal rules of life, but straight up orders are not the way he wants to go.

“Are you hungry?” he asks directly.

Matt shifts uneasily, “I don’t need anything,” he repeats.

“I’m going to take that as a ‘yes I am hungry actually’. Am I wrong?”

“But – ”

“But nothing, I’ve never gone to bed hungry in my life, I don’t want you doing it.”

“But your parents,” Matt’s voice drops as if Mom and Dad weren’t standing right there listening to him. “I don’t want to disturb them.”

“You won’t. They’re going to bed,” he turns to smile hopefully at Mom and she must understand because she nods and loops Dad’s arm around her waist.

“Come on Edward. Let’s leave the boys to it.”

Matt still looks hesitant. Foggy pulls out the big guns,

“I’m hungry, eating when I’m out with Rosalind gives me stomach ache.” 

His parents look at him like he’s fibbing to convince Matt, but actually it’s perfectly true, it’s just the stomach ache has never actually stopped him eating, swallowing down the food in his mouth helping him swallow down the painful tension in the room. He’d eaten his way through the bread basket before the starters arrived no matter Rosalind’s comment, ‘Really darling, must you? I’d think Anna never fed you but looking at you that’s clearly not the case.’ Just thinking about it makes him want something to eat.

Matt, one hand held out crooked in front of him protectively, scurries down the stairs towards him.

“Sorry Foggy, of course we can get food. What did you want?”

“I want peanut butter and jelly on toast.” Warm toast with crunchy peanut and sticky sweetness. He’s not hungry but the thought of it makes him hum happily. “What do you like for a snack?”

“I like peanut butter,” says Matt, and dammit Foggy let himself get distracted and expressed a preference before he asked Matt. He’s so stupid sometimes. Of course Matt was going to say he likes peanut butter. Still the position isn’t irrecoverable, he can just go through all the jams and jellies and find one Matt likes, there’s honey and Candace’s sickly chocolate spread too, and cream cheese. Matt must honestly like one of them.

“Well it’s your toast. You can pick what you want to put on it. Let’s go.”

Foggy takes gross advantage of Matt’s blindness and watches him closely as he clinks his way through the jam jars and lists off the options, and he sees Matt physically stutter when he mentions the cream cheese.

“You like cream cheese?”

“Yes?” says Matt cautiously, like he’s checking it’s the right answer.

“Hey, we have all this stuff right here, might as well pick something you like.”

Matt considers that for a moment and then his face firms, “I like cream cheese,” he states, then ruins the effect by suddenly looking worried.

“Great.” Foggy has the horrible feeling that Matt wouldn’t be in the least surprised if Foggy made him eat peanut butter after all. “You want ham with that too?”

Matt bites his lip, “Yes.”

“Is that a yes you like ham, or a yes you’ll eat it if you have too?”

Foggy can see the sharp glint of fury at the continuing questions, Matt must have a wicked temper when provoked. His eyes are practically glowing as he snarls,

“I don’t like those thin packet ham slices, they used to put them in sandwiches at the orphanage and they taste like plastic. I like proper ham.” 

And then Matt folds his arms and stares down his nose at him, daring Foggy to punish him for honestly answering his questions.

Foggy kinda wants to hug him, a lot. Instead he bumps their elbows companionably,

“Handily Mom also disapproves of plastic ham so we have it sliced from the deli. Will that that suit, your Majesty.”

Matt’s whole face scrunches up in confusion and he says meekly, “Yes please.”

The not-hugging thing is even harder now, so Foggy settles for making Matt cream cheese and ham toasties heavy on the ham. Handing Matt the plate, Foggy watches Matt’s face do the amazed-this-food-is-really-for-me thing that makes him want to alternately cry or hit stuff with his softball bat. 

Deliberately turning away he focuses on making himself some toast. He’s not as desperate to eat as he was but it gives him something to do with his hands.

“So, we need a new Matt-rule.”

Matt freezes in place, whispering, “Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s nothing bad. Keep eating.” Maybe Foggy shouldn’t have done this while Matt was eating, but he always finds awkward discussions easier if he’s eating. That’s something to consider for next time because he’s committed now,

“The new rule is that you will always eat three meals a day, at close to normal breakfast, lunch and dinner times and if things are working out so you won’t get to, then you need to tell me.”

He’s relieved to see Matt go back to eating as he thinks that one through.

“I don’t need – ” Matt starts, and Foggy has to take a deep breath so instead of snapping he says calmly,

“Matt, my family and I eat three meals a day, so you do too. It’s a rule. Oh, and if you get hungry at any point, you need to tell me, that’s a rule to.”

“Tell you if I’m hungry?”

“Yes, I mean if we’re about to sit down to dinner you don’t have to… Wait, I decided no wiggle room. The rule is you tell me if you’re hungry. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Repeat it for me.” He feels both an idiot and a dick for making up rules for Matt and making him repeat them as if he was a small child but it’s like all normal self-protectiveness has been stripped away from Matt – maybe he didn’t just want to help himself to food while they were out, but he didn’t even think to ask if he could – and if Matt won’t protect himself Foggy is going to have to try and create rules that will do it for him until he can do it for himself.

It’s just like school really, their little library study club has a whole string of useful extra rules to keep the younger ones safe and out of trouble until they understand how the school works. Foggy managed that okay, so maybe he won’t totally screw this up.

“Three meals a day, and I’m to tell you if I’m hungry.” Matt looks confused about the idea but that’s fine he’ll figure it out eventually.

“Good.” He slides his hand across the table to pat Matt’s arm. “I want you to tell me if there’s something bothering you. I can’t promise I’ll be able to fix it but I can’t even try if I don’t know what it is.” He doesn’t see how he can make that a rule, but if he asks often enough, Matt might start to volunteer information.

Matt picks at a piece of ham. Foggy holds his breath, hoping Matt will share whatever is on his mind and when Matt finally speaks he gulps with relief that Matt trusted him enough, before he hears what Matt’s saying,

“Your biological mother,”

“Call her Rosalind, it’s easier, and I am so sorry about her.”

“No, that’s, she came back to the house after you were gone.”

Foggy goes cold with rage, _how dare she_ , “Did she hurt you?” He grabs Matt’s wrist. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. She, she offered to set me free.”

“What? Why?” That sounds nothing like the Rosalind Foggy knows.

“She wanted me to ask you to sell me to her and then she promised she’d set me free in three years’ time.”

Okay, now that sounds like Rosalind. Foggy rubs his face, 

“Matt, buddy, I’m sorry but you really can’t trust Rosalind.” 

And yet, God, does this fall under protecting Matt, or is this denying him the ability to make his own decisions. Rosalind’s only reliable in her unreliability and general ability to be a, an extremely nasty person but he’s pretty sure her interest is in making him squirm, if she thinks freeing Matt will achieve that, then she might possibly actually do so. Does he have the right to stop Matt taking that chance? Even if it seems far more likely that Rosalind will just screw them both over.

Foggy closes his eyes for a long minute and then tries again, 

“Matt it’s your choice. I mean, I don’t want to but I will sell you to Rosalind if you want. But please, please think about it carefully, because Rosalind, she’s not so much on the trustworthy side.” 

And it’s okay if he gets his heart a little bit more broken each time he thinks maybe this time she’s for real and it turns out it’s only her playing her games with rules he doesn’t understand. But Foggy can’t let Matt get hurt just because he wants to believe his mother actually cares about him.

Matt’s gone very, very still, “You said no selling,” he accuses.

“Absolutely,” says Foggy. “No selling. But if you wanted me to – ”

Matt gets even stiller and Foggy remembers, right, no wiggle room. And it’s not that he thinks being sold to Rosalind is a _good_ idea. God, being fucking _owned_ by Rosalind for _three_ years. It’s the stuff of nightmares, and that’s assuming you even got freed at the end of it.

“No selling,” he says firmly, “that’s what I promised you, isn’t it. No selling, ever.” He wriggles his hand until he can link his pinkie with Matt’s.

Matt relaxes back into Matt instead of a statue, “No selling,” he repeats like that’s even more magical than food, or not being hurt. Foggy wants to break things.

“You can’t trust Rosalind anyway,” he says, mostly to reassure himself he’s doing the right thing.

“I know,” says Matt, like Foggy is being an idiot, “all she wanted to do was win, and I wasn’t going to help her beat you.”

“Oh.” Foggy feels abruptly warm all over. “Thank you buddy.”

Matt’s screws up in rejection of his thanks, “Why would I help her? _You_ have Matt-rules and promised never to sell me. _She’s_ mean to you, I don’t like her.”

While Foggy would prefer to hear that awed amazement for something better than simply promising not to hurt or sell Matt, that’s a distant concern and is completely overwhelmed by the rush of hearing someone say they don’t like Rosalind, that they specifically don’t like Rosalind because of how she treats him in particular.

Nobody has ever said that before. His parents, even Mom, always shuffled around the subject, assuring him that Rosalind loved him really she was just bad at showing it. With Candace the subject never came up because all three of them made a concerted effort to keep his baby sister below her radar and Rosalind would never condescend to enquire too closely about Anna’s brat.

Nobody has ever said that before and Foggy wants to curl up against Matt and shake with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says instead and tightens his grip on Matt’s hand.


	21. Chapter 21

Eventually Foggy pulls himself back together, they can’t spend the rest of the night in the kitchen while he feels sorry for himself.

“Are you finished?” he asks.

Matt runs a wistful finger through the crumbs on his plate, licks it clean, and then nods his head.

“Are you sure? I can make more.”

“I’m full.”

Foggy squints at him, trying to work out if that’s the truth or not. It wasn’t much for dinner, but on the other hand Matt hasn’t been eating much because he’s still getting used to food. In the end he decides it could well be true, and if he pushes the issue Matt will undoubtedly eat more to please him and he doesn’t want to make him sick – that would definitely be the worst outcome. Matt’s at least had something to eat and as miserable a fact as it is, it is still true that Matt’s used to being short of food and it won’t hurt him.

Foggy doesn’t like the world very much at the moment.

He collects up their plates and dumps them in the sink,

“Okay, let’s go to bed.”

Matt quickly scrambles to his feet. Foggy hold out his crooked arm, nudging Matt with his elbow and Matt slips his hand into place. Of course houses weren’t really designed with the idea of guiding in mind so Foggy ends ups half a step ahead of Matt most of the way but it still feels companionable. It’s only as Foggy walks into his bedroom that he remembers the problem,

“Oh dammit.”

He can feel the sudden tension rocket through Matt, arm stiffening in his grip, and there’s a hasty,

“Sorry.”

“Matt, you idiot, you haven’t done anything. I’m the idiot who forgot to get the camp bed down from my parents’ room.”

“Don’t worry I can sleep on the floor, I’ll make sure to get up before Mrs Anna finds me.”

Foggy grits his teeth, just thinking about Matt curled up on the floor makes him want to hit things.

“You are not sleeping on the floor. You take the bed, I’ll go sleep on the couch in the living room,” he growls.

“You can’t do that,” Matt clutches at him, he looks completely appalled, as if Foggy had suggested he cut off his own arm or something.

“Of course I can, I’ve slept on couches before, it’s not painful, not like explaining to Mom that I made you sleep on the couch would be.” And he can’t stand the thought of denying Matt a bed. Even if you’re in jail you get three meals a day and a bed. “It’s my fault for getting distracted and not remembering to get the camp bed down.”

Matt’s still clutching at him.

 

Matt can’t believe Foggy is actually suggesting he sleep on a couch while Matt sleeps on a bed. He knows it’s true though, he can hear it in the steady beat of his heart and feel it in the way he’s subtly edging towards the door.

There is no way Matt can let him do that. Because Foggy is wrong, Mrs Anna has been very nice to Matt, but Foggy is her son and if Matt takes Foggy’s bed she’ll be so mad. Matt doesn’t want to make her mad, both because he wants to put off being punished for as long as possible, and because she has been so nice to him he plain doesn’t want to upset her.

“We could share the bed,” he suggests.

“No,” says Foggy, decisive and firm. 

Matt is so surprised he can’t hold back his plaintive, “Why?” He’d liked it when Foggy declared a snuggle party. He knows he shouldn’t expect things but he’d thought Foggy’d liked been so cozy and comfortable too.

“Why?” There’s a rush of air that suggests Foggy’s waving his free arm around. “Because you had a flashback, Matt. I was stupid and cruel to make you get into bed with me. I won’t do it again.”

“What? I didn’t.”

“Matt, I think you actually stopped breathing altogether for a minute.”

“It wasn’t because of the bed.” It was over-hearing that other slave talking about him like he was a nothing, but he can’t tell Foggy that.

“No?” Foggy shakes his head, hair fluttering against his collar. “Matt I know almost nothing about what happened to you, but I know you weren’t treated well,” he laughs then, a horrid jangly sound and Matt presses closer because Foggy shouldn’t sound like that, “and that’s clearly a horrendous understatement if there ever was one.” 

“Foggy?”

Foggy sighs heavily, then bumps Matt’s arm with his. “I don’t want to – I won’t – do anything that reminds you of that.”

He hunches his shoulders, “I don’t understand what that’s got to do with the bed.”

“You were,” Foggy breaks off and shifts from foot to foot, “They made you have sex with them.”

Matt blinks, still confused. Because yes they did but – oh, he can feel himself flush hot with embarrassment, 

“Not in bed,” he explains, “You have to be a good pet for that. I’m just,” he can’t bring himself to explain how much of a nothing he is, that Rosalind was right when she called him a throwaway. He ducks his head and wishes he could vanish into the floor as he mumbles, “I’m not worth that.”

Foggy’s heart thunders and his breathing is all fluttery and rapid. Matt pats his shoulder anxiously. Then his breathing abruptly slows right down, whistling harshly through his lungs.

“Bed,” Foggy says. “Now.”

Matt’s not sure he likes this, not when Foggy’s face is hot with anger, but he goes obediently and finds that actually it’s nothing bad. Foggy yanks back the covers and flops onto the bed, tugging Matt down with him, but that’s all. He just lies there, arm loosely around Matt’s back, and his heartbeat is already slowing down to its steady reassuring thump and it sounds so good Matt can’t help moving a little closer

Foggy hums happily and shifts so Matt can rest his head against his shoulder more easily.

“You okay if I pull the covers up?”

“Um-hmm,” agrees Matt, suddenly too tired to speak. The bed covers flump down over him soft and warm. He’s still in his clothes and they’re twisted awkwardly but he likes the small discomfort it makes this real and not a wistful fantasy.

Breath shudders out of Foggy in one long sigh and all the tension in his body leaves with it. He loops his other arm over Matt and Matt inches his hand up so he can grab the label of Foggy’s jacket and hang on. He closes his eyes and just listens to Foggy breathing.

Long minutes later Foggy says,

“You okay?”

Matt has no words, drugged on the solid weight of another body against his own. 

“Matt?”

A hand tugs at his hair and he stiffens as freezing phantom fingers strip away all comfort.

His voice wavers as he begs, “Please don’t pull my hair.” 

Before he even has a chance to call himself stupid, the hand releases its grip and strokes gently against his scalp in apology. Matt purrs and pushes back against the contact.

“Definitely a cat,” Foggy teases gently. “You gonna let me know if you’re okay?”

Matt rubs his cheek against Foggy’s shoulder because words are stupid.

“Words are pretty stupid,” Foggy agrees, and Matt realizes he said that out loud, “but I’d really like a yes or no.”

“There aren’t words,” Matt protests, because okay is such a feeble word to compared to how he feels right now.

“Do you want to get up?”

“No. No please.” Matt closes his eyes and tries to let go of his hold on Foggy’s jacket but his fingers won’t release their grip.

“Alright then.” And Foggy stays just where he is. Matt relaxes with a sigh.

“I want to thank you,” he says. But he doesn’t really want to move. He will though, Foggy deserves to be thanked. “I wanted too earlier. And you made a whole new Matt-rule too.” He ducks his head a little before pulling back up, “I want to thank you.”

“We can thank each other,” says Foggy.

“No, no, no.” Matt struggles to pull away, Foggy shouldn’t have to thank anybody

“Shush,” says Foggy and now his arms have tightened, and he could still get free but he doesn’t want to fight him. “I get to say thank you to you too. Now we’re going to try something different this time, so listen carefully.”

He stops to listen. Things haven’t hurt yet with Foggy so maybe this will be okay.

“I want you to do something for me. I’m going to be visiting my friends from school, I want you to come with me so I can introduce you to them. Will you do that for me?”

Matt feels very small and very cold. 

“Yes,” he says quietly because he can’t say no. And even if he could Foggy deserves to be thanked.

“Uh-huh,” says Foggy, “What are you thinking now?”

The words slip out without Matt’s permission, because Foggy has been so very kind to him and maybe,

“You won’t let them hurt me too much?”

The arms around Matt constrict into painful as Foggy’s heart flips crazily in his chest.

“Sorry,” Matt apologizes hastily. He pulls away to sit up a little. He shouldn’t have said anything.

Foggy breathes heavily through his mouth. His arms relax and then he strokes one hand along Matt’s back.

“Matt, I want you to listen to me.”

Matt nods, hurried and earnest.

“My friends aren’t going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anybody hurt you ever again.”

His senses tell him Foggy really believes what he’s saying. Matt can’t understand it. He’s going to get punished, he knows that. Oh, but maybe Foggy isn’t counting that as hurt because Matt will deserve it. That makes sense. And not being hurt unless he’s being punished, that’s very nearly too amazing to be true, but Foggy has been so not-angry, so not-cruel, maybe it is. Foggy certainly believes it’s true and that’s a gift all on its own.

He settles back against Foggy, letting his too heavy head drop down on his shoulder, “Thank you.”

“You’re already thanking me by visiting my friends with me. Because Valentina will ask you too many questions, and Eamon is totally tactless, and Dante enjoys being outrageous, and well it will be a disaster but if you get overwhelmed, or any of them hurt you, I want you to tell me right way, okay?”

“Okay.”

“This is important, I need to know. Because if I can’t trust them with you, how can I trust them with anything?”

Oh, of course Foggy would need to know if his friends are like Miss Evangeline’s, ignoring his requests and saying nasty things behind his back.

“I promise.”

“Good,” says Foggy, “Now, I want to say thank you to you. So what would you like to do?”

“Like to do?”

“Yes, if we’re visiting my friends for me, we’re going to do something for you too. So what would you like?”

“Like?” Matt has no idea how to answer that question. His likes have never mattered before. Sure Foggy asked him earlier but before that Matt hasn’t thought about what he’d like in years. Occasionally things happened that he liked, when Mr Robert was in a good mood nice things happened, but the idea of _choosing_ was forgotten long ago. Matt runs his thumb over the chip embedded in his neck.

“Anything at all,” Foggy prompts. Which does not help at all. Then he qualifies with, “As long as it’s actually possible. And reasonable, I guess.”

What does reasonable even mean? Nothing about this conversation is reasonable. Then Matt has an idea,

“I’d liked it when we had baklava. Can we do that again?”

Foggy sighs right from his toes, “I’d so like to think that was a tribute to my masterful ability to pick fun things to do.”

“Foggy?”

“That’s what you want?”

“Yes.” It’s a safe choice, they’ve already done it once so it must be reasonable, and the baklava did taste good.

“Alright then, that’s what we’ll do.”

Matt believes him. It’s not Foggy making a promise that will vanish in the light of day, they really are going to go back to the diner and have baklava.

Matt believes him. He is in so much trouble.


	22. Chapter 22

But Matt can’t find the energy to panic about that now. He’s warm and comfy and as ridiculous as it is he feels safe. Although it’s not that ridiculous he supposes, he’s been here two whole days and Foggy hasn’t hurt him yet. That’s never happened before.

Normally he wouldn’t deliberately think about his previous owners, but now, with Foggy’s smell all around him, his heartbeat loud in his ears, and his body solid against him, it’s possible to touch the jagged memories.

At the Farmers’ Co-Operative on the first evening there was a sort of initiation and Matt and all the other new slaves got dunked in the river again and again while the old hands bet on how many times it would take for them to start begging or pass out. When it came to his turn Matt was so mad after hearing the screaming of the other slave-kids from the orphanage, that he fought his way past the spinning blackness and ended up lasting the longest, which did not make him popular with anyone.

Mr David, Matt’s thoughts skid over being owned by Mr David with the ease of long practice, when Mr David went bankrupt, the county collections slave trader took them into custody and there was the standard rough handling but nothing too extreme because traders wouldn’t want to damage the merchandise. The only really vicious store owner had been the last one, when he inspected Matt on arrival and realized Matt was blind, well it was pretty much luck that he survived long enough for the man to decide beating to death a seventeen year old slave would bring too much trouble to his doorstep.

Mr Robert and Miss Kendra, Matt didn’t actually met them until two months after arriving at the mansion, but their house steward made sure all the new slaves understood their place by the simple expedient of leaving them cramped and cuffed in their travelling boxes until they’d all messed themselves and then, after they were released, whipped them for inappropriate behavior as they struggled to crawl out on their shaking, overstrained limbs.

Miss Evangeline was all sugary sweet, welcoming him to their little family as her fluttering hands touched every part of Matt. It was all so fake Matt had wanted to snarl. He wasn’t even a toy to Miss Evangeline, just a shiny object that happened to breathe. He hated the way she’d hold his chin steady and stroke her fingers over his eyes cooing over how they were so pretty and useless.

Of course first of all there had been Stick, but Matt doesn’t think about Stick either, except for all the times he does. Stick handed him back to the orphanage because Matt wasn’t good enough. 

Foggy isn’t going to do that. Foggy promised no selling ever. The no-hurting part will change, obviously, but Foggy doesn’t seem like he hurts for fun and Matt isn’t a good slave, he knows that, so he doesn’t mind when he’s getting punished for doing something bad. That’s only fair. It’s way better than being sold.

So maybe he really is safe. The hope rolls over him like a warm wave and he lets himself sink. 

 

Foggy feels Matt grow loose-limbed against him as he slips into sleep and relaxes himself. Right now Matt’s safe and Foggy doesn’t have to worry about messing up. Sighing, he stares up at the ceiling and thinks about everything he has to do. First, and most important of all, he has to take Matt for baklava. That is not optional.

He can combine that mission with speaking to the bakery owner about how to look after Matt, because his parents might have grabbed the idiot ball when they called in Rosalind (seriously why would anybody call in Rosalind for something requiring tact and empathy? his Dad loses all ability to think straight when it come to her. Although now he considers it Rosalind is probably really good at vengeance served cold and sharp. Maybe he’ll get a few more details out of Matt about his previous owners and go speak to her) but they are right that they need help in the worst way. At the moment he’s stumbling around in the dark and it’s only luck he hasn’t hurt Matt somehow.

Also he needs to order his college course books in braille, and maybe two or three learning braille books, those must exist right, to get Matt back up to speed. And a braille printer and one of those voice recognition programs, and maybe there’s a machine that can scan print and turn it into words on a screen. 

Shaking his head, he decides that list is getting too long and technical. Just the books for now, and he’ll have to hunt down the number of a blind organization that will be able to give him some help with the technology. He wants Matt to have everything he needs but there’s no point spending money on stuff that doesn’t work.

He’ll call his friends too and arrange a meet-up. He wants Matt to meet them because laughing with his friends is one of his favorite things and Matt needs more favorite things. And he wants Matt to realize they’re not going to hurt him (he doesn’t want to think about why Matt took that as a given but he knows he doesn’t like it) that Foggy won’t let anybody hurt him. 

Matt should go to the doctors for a check-up too, because he can’t believe anyone’s being looking after him for years. But that’s another question for the bakery-lady because the book Rosalind bought for graduation on ‘How to Manage Your Study-Aid’ mentioned slave-vets and that just sounds like a bad idea all round. Matt’s a people, he needs a people-doctor. Hopefully bakery-lady will have some ideas.

In fact the rest of his list will have to wait until after he’s spoken to her and he has a better idea of what needs to be prioritized. That decided he ticks off the main points again to get them straight in his mind, baklava right at the top of the list, and then mentally puts it aside. He’s all set for tomorrow, he can go to sleep now.

But he stares at the ceiling for a long time before sleep comes.

 

The next morning Foggy wakes up to the click of his bedroom door and his mom’s gasp. He grabs Matt protectively close and narrows his eyes at her, trying to will her into silence without words. It sort of works, Mom’s mouth twists up and she beckons him towards her with a hard and emphatic jerk of her hand.

With a sigh, Foggy wriggles loose from Matt’s grip, shifting his limp body so he can support himself and pulling the covers back over him. He strokes his fingers through Matt’s sweaty hair when he starts making mumbly sounds like he might wake up and is pleased to see him settle.

Carefully he creeps out the room and closes the door behind him. He straightens his crumpled clothes and wishes he’d thought to change into pajamas. Mom looks less cross as she gestures for him to precede her down the stairs to the kitchen.

“Franklin, why was that boy in your bed?”

“He has to sleep – ” and then his not-awake brain figures out what she really means, “Mom, no. Just no, okay. I am not going to have sex with Matt, it would be,” he waves one hand helplessly because he has no way to explain how wrong that would be. Matt’s right, words are stupid.

“So why – ?”

“We forgot to get the camp bed down. And Matt had to sleep somewhere. I wasn’t going to make him sleep on the couch.”

“What about Candace’s room. You slept there the night before.”

He feels a bit foolish for not thinking of that, but on the other hand, “Only under orders. I’m not going anywhere near her room on my own account. I like my head attached to my shoulders.”

“Your sister is not that bad.”

“Sounding a little unsure there Mom.”

“Shush you.” Then her face wavers and Mom wraps her arm around him to pull him close. “Oh Foggy, my little treasure, please be careful.”

“I’m not going to let anything hurt Matt.” He’s determined to make that the truth, no matter what it takes.

Mom’s voice wobbles, “I don’t want either of you hurt and I’m so afraid you’re going to be. Please be careful.”

“I will, honest.”

She sighs but moves on, “What would you like for breakfast?”

“Eggs? I can ask Matt what his favorite sort of eggs is.” Yes, that’s a great plan. He needs to know more of Matt’s favorites, and, as much as he’d like to be wrong, some shaken part of him thinks _Matt_ needs to know more of Matt’s favorites. Eggs are an easy question, from a cook’s point of view there’s not much difference, so Matt won’t need to censor himself.

“I asked what _you_ would like for breakfast.”

“Uh. Eggs, I guess.” He thinks about it for a moment, “Maybe scrambled with peppers?”

“Better get chopping then.”

Foggy ferrets through the fridge and digs up half a red pepper and some tomatoes and starts to chop them, working in the companionable silence as Mom slices the bread for toast.

 

Matt wakes up in a bed. He’s less confused this time. He still doesn’t understand Foggy’s insistence he sleep in a bed but he accepts that it’s something Foggy wants. Sitting up, he knuckles the sleep from his eyes and wonders over the exuberance he can feel sparking through him. He hasn’t felt so full of energy in ages, even his senses seem clearer.

Downstairs Foggy and Mrs Anna are talking about Foggy’s sister coming home tomorrow. Foggy is saying how awful it will be but he’s not even trying to sound convincing, Matt thinks even without his sense he’d be able to tell it wasn’t true.

As he makes his way downstairs, Foggy pops out the kitchen,

“Hey there sleepyhead. You ready for breakfast?”

“Yes, thank you,” Matt agrees and in the privacy of his own head exults over this evidence in support of the Matt-rules.

“Great. We’re having eggs. How do you want yours?”

It must be all fizzing energy inside him but Matt finds it easy to reach into his memory and pull out an answer. 

“Poached if that’s okay please,” he says, “My dad could never poach eggs properly so we’d have them specially when we went out for breakfast after mass on Sundays.” He’d forgotten that until just now and it’s a good memory and he wants to hug Foggy for giving it back to him.

“Poached we can do,” says Mrs Anna from the kitchen doorway, “they are tricky though, so I’m not surprised your dad found it difficult.”

“Thank you.” He can sense Foggy just in front of him and he reaches out without thinking about it, remembering at the last moment to let his hand waver blindly.

“Here,” says Foggy catching his hand with his and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Come on you must be hungry.”

And Matt startles, because he _is_ , not the constant dull ache he was used to, but a sharp spiky hunger that feels alive. He squeezes Foggy’s hand back and wishes there were better words than thank you.


	23. Chapter 23

After breakfast there’s a shower and clean clothes. Foggy groans over the clothes, “Oh my God, clothes, another one for the list. Matt, do you mind wearing my clothes?”

“No,” Matt replies honestly, because he’d never mind clothes, real clothes, not the scratchy net things Miss Evangeline made them wear, and Foggy’s clothes are even better. Matt is important enough to wear Foggy’s clothes. He smooths his hands down over the material.

“Great. We’ll worry about them later then. I’ll go downstairs and let you get ready.” He turns to go and then turns back. “Hang on, shower. Let me show you how it works.” And Foggy talks him through shampoo and soap and how to operate the shower paying particular attention to turning the temperature up and down, “because I’m not having you scald or freeze yourself, understand. Set it at whatever temperature makes you feel comfortable. Oh, but bear in mind that the hot water will fade out after about fifteen minutes.”

That’s very nearly an order, it certainly counts as permission. Matt takes a long hot shower, dresses himself in Foggy’s clothes and hugs himself with happiness. Collecting his white cane, he makes his way downstairs.

“Hey buddy. Mom has a couple of jobs for us and then we’ll get some baklava.”

Matt understands he’s being rewarded, but he doesn’t really understand what for so he just keeps quiet and accepts Foggy’s arm when it’s offered.

It’s odd walking down the street as a real person. Now that he doesn’t have to pay so much attention to Foggy, or concentrate on remembering the buildings they’re passing, he has the chance to fully grasp that he is actually back in New York, Hell’s Kitchen.

Of course he’d been sent back to New York when Mr Robert returned him to his original trader as defective, but he’d only been in the trader’s shop and then Miss Evangeline’s house in the Hamptons, and then another two stores after Miss Evangeline sold him on because she decided he was creepy after he freaked her out by deliberately smiling for three days straight. 

(Matt has no idea what she was complaining about, she was the one who told him he could stand to be more happy and grateful given how well she looked after her pets.)

But now he’s back out on the streets where he grew up. Matt sometimes thinks he’d do anything to see the sky again, but being able to feel it so high and open above him after so long trapped inside is amazing all on its own.

And the streets – he can’t exactly claim they smell sweet, but they smell of home and it’s not faint traces through a quickly closed door half-buried under the stink of slaves, but real and alive, itching his nose and sparking his skin.

 

Dressed in Foggy’s clothes nobody can tell he’s a slave so he passes unnoticed as they stroll down the street picking up some things Mrs Anna needs and stopping at the post office to send two parcels off to Ireland. Foggy says hello to a lot of people and one of them, a middle-aged lady, puts her hand on his arm to stop him. 

“Foggy, how lovely to see you.”

“Hi Brett’s-mom.”

“Honestly Foggy, you’re off to College in September, call me Bess.”

“I couldn’t possibly do that,” Foggy exclaims, laughing and acting scandalized, “What would Brett say. Oh, this is Matt. Matt this is Brett’s Mom. We went to elementary school together, Brett and me I mean, not his mom, obviously.”

“Hello Matt,” says Bess, “it’s nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” says Matt politely trying not to cringe under her curious eyes.

“Matt’s going to college with me,” explains Foggy.

“So you’re showing him around Hell’s Kitchen? Do you like the old place, Matt?”

“Uh, yes ma’am.”

“And you must have met Edward and Anna if you stayed with Foggy last night. Don’t look so startled Foggy, he’s clearly wearing your clothes, such baggy jeans haven’t been in fashion since before you were born. It went well then?”

“Uh.” Matt has no idea what she’s talking about, “Yes ma’am.”

“That’s excellent.” She swoops on Foggy and there’s the smack of a kiss, and then she swoops on Matt and it’s only practice that stops Matt from shoving her away from him as she kisses him too.

“Of course the real test will be Rosalind,” she continues.

Matt glowers.

“Matt doesn’t like Rosalind,” Foggy says softly, like it’s a secret.

“She’s mean to Foggy,” Matt corroborates.

“So you’ve been introduced to Rosalind – and you don’t like her.” Matt gets another attack-kiss. It’s slightly less alarming this time. “It’s lovely to meet you Matt. You clearly have excellent taste. You and Foggy must come to dinner some time.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And so polite too, I must call Anna to congratulate her, and tell her how jealous I am.” She hurries away.

Foggy shakes his head, “Adults are so weird. Come on we just need to buy some grape juice for Candace, she loves the stuff, goodness knows why, and we’ll be done.”

When they’re finished they head towards the bakery. Matt had, somehow, believed Foggy when he said they would go back but seeing it actually happening makes him feel warm all over. Because if Foggy sticks to what he said about that, it means he’s likely to stick to everything else he said too, right?

As they walk into the shop everyone turns to stare and Elizabeth behind the counter says,

“You came back!” and then her heart flips out and her body cringes as if the words came out of her mouth louder than she intended.

“Couldn’t stay away,” says Foggy, “the baklava was amazing.”

“So how can I help you?” There’s a muttered grumble from the rest of the line but Matt can hear them start to shift aside to allow Foggy to the head of the line. They want the slave owner out of there as soon as possible, before he can cause any trouble.

“Oh no,” says Foggy, “please serve these people first, we can wait.”

“Really, I – ”

“It’s fine honest. I need to tell Matt all about the different types of cake anyway.” He tugs gently on Matt’s sleeve and they shuffle until Foggy is satisfied with his view of the display. Matt tracks the comments behind them; he’s been a slave in the wrong place before, he’s not going to let Foggy be a free person in the wrong place now. There are a couple of angry comments and a few people slip away murmuring they’ll be back later but nobody is annoyed enough that their bodies grow taut with potential.

Foggy stiffens under the looming tension, drawing Matt in closer. After a moment his body relaxes, but he still keeps Matt close and Matt tell from the way his voice changes that he keeps turning his head to check on the other customers even as he describes the selection of cakes and cookies.

“Okay, here we go. You know, you don’t have to pick baklava if you don’t want. I’m going to buy a box to have as desert for Candycane’s first dinner back with us. So if you want something else just shout.”

Matt listens but nothing sounds nicer than the sweet chewy baklava that Foggy liked but shared with Matt even though he didn’t need to.

“Baklava please,” he says.

Foggy looks at him for a moment, then says, “Okay then.” And when it’s their turn to order, Foggy orders him some, and a chocolate cookie and lemonade for himself, “You want lemonade, Matt? We kinda bounced you into that one. Elizabeth, what drinks do you have?”

Matt listens to yet another list, still off-guard from all the choosing involved. It’s giving him a bit of a headache. He’s never had to make so many choices in a row before. His owners asked him questions sometimes but there was always a right answer so there was never really a _choice_. He hasn’t had to make so many choices ever, not since Dad. 

He doesn’t remember choosing being so tiring.


	24. Chapter 24

Foggy’s relieved when the last customer leaves, he feels guilty about that, and guilty because his presence clearly emptied out the shop, but mostly he’s relieved to be out from under their accusing stares. He recognizes those sort of stares, but he’s never been on the receiving end before. They’re the sort of stares that follow the stars of school as they strut past their victims. 

(Foggy isn’t actually one of the bullied, he’s as surprised by this as everyone else, but somehow his little study group managed to turtle in on themselves so fiercely they sidestepped all of that. He has tried to step in on behalf of the bullied but it usually ended with them telling him to fuck off because being defended by the ridiculously uncool Franklin Nelson is somehow social death in a way being tripped into your locker isn’t. Foggy is never going to understand High School.) 

He hates the idea that he’s become a person who deserves those sort of stares. He doesn’t want them or the fearful caution that goes with them but he doesn’t know how to fix it. At least Elizabeth is smiling at him like she honestly wants him there, even after he’s chased off all her custom.

Matt chooses baklava, and looks pained as he considers his drink order, like all the choosing is giving him a headache. The want to help is vicious but Foggy bites his tongue. He can’t start making decisions for Matt, even, and especially, to make things easier for Matt. If he starts now he’ll never stop, he’ll keep on protecting Matt for his own good and that’s just not right. Foggy wouldn’t want Mom to make all his decisions for him, even if she’d make really good decisions (probably better than Foggy would make on his own, but that’s beside the point). 

Eventually Matt picks apple soda, which proves Foggy shouldn’t be making his decisions for him because he’d never have chosen that. He settles Matt with their food and drink at a tiny table tucked against the wall.

“Stay there for a moment, I just need to go and speak to the owner for a second.” He heads back to the counter, straightening his sweater and trying to make sure his smile doesn’t look nervous.

“Hi Elizabeth, I was wondering if I could speak to the owner? Her name was Belle, right?”

Elizabeth blinks weakly at him, “Uh, Belle doesn’t talk to many people, but, um, I can go ask?”

He has an uneasy feeling he’s taking advantage of the wary, forced respect his presence seems to inspire but this is for Matt, so he hardens his sensibilities and says,

“Would you? That would be so great, thank you.”

Elizabeth slides away into the back of the shop, remerging after only a few minutes with Belle. Now that Foggy’s not distracted by coming down from being terrified he can see she’s so imperiously beautiful he’s kind of terrified all over again.

“Ah, the free boy is back.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes automatically, “The baklava was really great, I’d like to order a box for my sister.”

“You don’t need to speak to me for this.”

“I was also hopping to ask you a couple of questions, maybe, if you’re not too busy?” he smiles hopefully.

She looks at him like he’s an inopportune bug but Foggy’s pretty immune to that sort of look from anybody but Rosalind, so he just keeps smiling.

“Fine,” she says eventually, “We can talk in my office.”

He follows her into the back, glancing around curiously as they walk through a tiny hallway, past a door that leads into a large brightly lit kitchen and into a small room kitted out with a plywood desk and an ugly greeny-gold four drawer filing cabinet.

“Now you had ‘a couple of questions’,” the sarcasm is thick.

“Uh, maybe three or four?” He smiles hopefully, “About Matt, or well slavery I guess.”

“And you think I should answer them?”

“I, you seem like you’d know. And there’s, I mean, I don’t exactly trust the Slavery for Dummies books and Mom has these pamphlets from a Slave Rehabilitation center but they all seemed a bit clinical,” he shrugs his shoulders helplessly, “and maybe talked about slaves like they had actually been lobotomized, which could true for some, I don’t know, but it clearly is not true for Matt. And Rosalind had some people she wanted to call, but that was Rosalind, which means they’re a bad idea pretty much by definition, so uh, help? please?”

“And why should I help you?”

“No reason I guess, but this is for Matt.”

She sighs, “And why should I help Matt?”

Foggy’s stumped for a moment, why wouldn’t somebody want to help Matt? “Well he’s a slave, like you were, right?” He’s sure he’s guessed correctly, although she hadn’t explicitly said she was a freed slave in bond.

“What of it? That doesn’t make your Matt anything to me. Why would I waste my time talking to you?”

Foggy folds his arms, “So what do you want?” She must want something, or she wouldn’t still be talking to him. 

“You have a credit card?”

“Yes,” he admits cautiously.

“Good. The power company has messed up my bill and they’re currently overcharging me more than I can easily pay. My landlord is no help at all. And when I call the company, they won’t help until I give them a credit card number, even though they’re not going to charge me anything because I’m disputing the bill. And I can’t give them a credit card number because nobody will give you one while you’re in bond.” She starts to stalk across the room,

“It may come as a surprise to you, free boy, but people are generally utterly unhelpful once they realize you were a slave because somehow _their_ idiotic systems become _your_ fault. I keep calling them because I’ll get through to a sympathizer or abolitionist eventually but I’m starting to get worried the power will be cut off first. It would be a lot simpler if you could call them and give them your card number,” she glares at him like she expects him to say no.

Is that all. “Is that all? Of course I’ll call the power company for you. You should have said something yesterday I’d have been happy to come back. To be honest dealing with this sort of dickishness is much more my speed.”

She closes her eyes for a second, “Of course it is.” She looks really tired, Foggy wants to help, so he smiles,

“Hey bureaucracy rules the world. I’m going to be a lawyer one day, I know this stuff. Gimme the number.” 

He’s done this before. A couple of his friend’s at school have Moms who aren’t so good at English, so they bring official stuff into the library to get Mrs Leggett to help them and she makes Foggy help too, tells him it will be good practice for when he’s a lawyer. Foggy’s helped them argue with officialdom over the telephone too, it’s not that hard provided you can stay patient. Unfortunately, judging by her aggravated pacing, Belle is probably the least patient person ever.

He accepts the stack of bills she hands him, the top three are red reminder notices. 

“We have an extra meter for some reason,” she explains, “and they’ve taking their reading off the wrong one so it looks like we use far more electricity than we actually have.”

“No worries, I got this.” Of course he’s immediately shunted onto hold music, but allowing that to annoy you is a total rookie mistake. 

Belle strides around the room like a caged tiger, then stops and smiles at him, all teeth,

“Alright free boy, you have until someone picks up, hit me.”

 

Matt listens carefully as Foggy follows Belle into the back of the shop, he’s worried because Belle’s body sounds angry. Then Foggy starts talking about him, and Matt listens even harder. Foggy isn’t saying mean things though. Matt’s not sure why he’s asking about how slaves get freed but he isn’t asking about punishments, which was Matt had worried about, and he isn’t asking about selling, not that he would because Foggy had promised no selling.

Feeling more settled he eats a piece of baklava and it’s just as sticky and delicious as before.

The shop is still empty and with no customers Elizabeth had cleaned and straightened, now she leans across the counter and says,

“You like the baklava then?”

“It’s very nice, thank you miss.”

Elizabeth laughs lightly, “You don’t have to call me miss, Elizabeth is fine.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say to that so he takes a sip of his apple soda and his face screws up because ick, it tastes artificial and overly-saccharine and ick.

“Oh dear,” says Elizabeth, “I guess you don’t like the soda. I’ll get you a glass of water.” He can hear a tap run.

“No thank you miss, Elizabeth, I don’t, uh – ”

“It’s okay, tap water is free.” She walks around the counter. “Do you want me to hand it to you, or put it on the table?”

Matt holds up a wary hand and wraps it around the chill glass pressed against his skin. “Thank you.”

“So do you know why your owner has he come to see Belle?” she asks casually but he can hear the uptick in her heartrate and he sympathizes because Foggy is change and change is bad. (Except Foggy is never bad.)

Foggy didn’t tell him, but he can hear the questions Foggy’s asking and it’s not secrets, “He’s asking her about slave bonds and slave-vets. He doesn’t like slave-vets.” Matt smiles to himself at this further proof that Foggy is safety.

“That’s great,” says Elizabeth. “We don’t like slave-vets round here either. Last year they tried to set up a slave-clinic on the next block but,” her voice drops to a whisper, “just before it opened the whole place burned down.”

“Accidents happen,” says Matt carefully. He can hear Elizabeth nod solemnly. 

After a pause he asks, “So are there many slaves around here? I know some people in Hell’s Kitchen keep a slave assistant but I thought you couldn’t keep a slave while you were in bond?”

“We’re the Devil’s Stove, hottest part of Hell’s Kitchen and zombie central. And you can keep a slave if you’re a zombie, provided you’re married to them.”

Matt taps his fingers softly against the table as he considers the logistics, “How does that even work?”

“You buy a slave, then get married before you register as the owner. You generally need the previous owner be willing to help you out, but if you’re in that position it’s usually because that owner was willing to help you out. My friends Tony and Annie fought like crazy to save every cent they could find and when their owner died they had enough to get Tony into bond and he was able to buy Annie, now they’re working together to save enough money to free Annie too.”

The thought of a partnership like that makes Matt shiver with longing, “That’s nice,” he says tepidly because there’s no point admitting you want what you can’t have.

“I know,” Elizabeth agrees wistfully, before hurriedly switching back to the safety of reportage, “Of course if you have children before you’re out of bond, they’re automatically slaves too, so I think here in the Stove there are more slaves than in all the rest of Hell’s Kitchen. We have freed people too because nobody wants to move out until everyone in their family is free.”

“But then you move out?”

“Most people do. Tony and Annie want to move to Brooklyn. But you don’t want to be zombie on your own, you’d be – ”

“Easy meat,” says Matt ghoulishly. 

“Yes,” Elizabeth laughs with the morbid humor of one who knows. Then she shifts nervously on her feet and twirls her hair around her fingers. “So your owner, he is a good owner?”

“Foggy is wonderful,” he says because Foggy is.

“Really?” she sounds doubtful. Matt scowls because nobody should doubt Foggy’s wonderfulness.

“There are Matt-rules,” he boasts.

“Matt-rules?”

“Uh huh.” His voice drops to a whisper, because Matt-rules are too precious to be discussed out loud. “No sex of any sort, at all, under any circumstances.”

“That is a very good rule.” Elizabeth rests her hand on his shoulder and he can feel the faint tremble under her skin.

“I know.”


	25. Chapter 25

“Okay.” Foggy tucks the phone between his shoulder and neck so he can rub his hands together as he tries to get his thoughts in order. He needs a notebook, probably a whole project file. “Okay.” Resting the phone against his shoulder with one hand, just close enough to hear tinny hold music, he turns to her and smiles his earnest, dealing with teachers, smile.

“Freeing a slave. Mom found this company that let’s slaves earn their bond money, and Rosalind offered a contract where she’d free him after working for her for three years. Would either of those actually come off?”

Belle laughs throatily, “Not as naïve as you look, are you? And it depends what you mean by come off. Enforceable contracts do exist but they’re usually full of loopholes. You can’t free a hostile and belligerent slave after all. And if holding the contract over their head doesn’t make them hostile and belligerent, then clearly they’re apathetic and a danger to themselves.”

So they’re caught either way, Foggy nods, “I can see that. Very Rosalind.”

“And as for letting them earn their bond money, I guess it depends on the company. There are two or three huge ones out west who are basically dumping grounds for agricultural and mining slaves once they get too old for hard labor. They do factory work until they earn their bond money, which coincidentally is usually just before they’re so old they start getting expensive from a healthcare point of view. If they want to keep the longer there tend to be fines or additional costs they have to pay off.”

“That’s,” Foggy searches for a word without success and settles on, “really twisted.”

Belle smiles nastily, “I used to know lot of big-time owners in my previous life. Really twisted is being polite.”

“But what happens to them afterwards?”

She shrugs her shoulders, “If they can keep it together long enough to last out the bond period they become the government’s problem. If they can’t, they can’t.”

“Right.” Foggy has no idea what to do with that.

“Don’t look so miserable, free boy, they don’t usually survive long enough for that to be a problem.”

“But what about smaller companies? Are they any good?”

“Better than nothing, I guess. I know some people who made it eventually, but once you’ve paid the company their percentage of your wages and bought all the classes and therapy they require you to take to prepare you,” her voice takes on a mocking lilt, “ ‘to live in the free world’ then the whole process has taken five times as long as it needed. Those places are where people who want to think they’re doing the right thing dump their slaves when they’re done with so they can stop their conscience nagging them without actually having to inconvenience themselves.”

“Mom’s not like that.”

“You know her not me. And don’t misunderstand, it’s better than most of the alternatives. But if you want your slave to earn their freedom, let them get a job. It’s not difficult.”

“And getting freed, how does that work?”

“You buy yourself off your owner, or otherwise convince them to let you go; put up your bond money; prove yourself to be a respectable citizen for the required length of time; and you’re done. Was your Matt always a slave?”

“He became one when he was eleven.” Foggy hunches his shoulders because it feels wrong discussing Matt behind his back, “Minor with no means of support.”

“He’s alright then. He’d be in bond for five years. Like me. I’ve only nineteen months to go. Poor Elizabeth was born a slave and has to qualify for citizenship too. She’ll be in bond for twelve years total.”

He shrinks away from her angry eyes, because what can you say to that.

“And that’s assuming they don’t add time for any infractions they can uncover or invent.”

Foggy can recognize a sore point when he sees one, he moves on, “So how much bond money?”

“Five times the price you were last sold at. Minimum fifteen thousand.”

“Ooh.” He needs to check this out, this could be totally doable.

“If something goes wrong, you get arrested, anything at all, they can decide you’re not suitable to be freed. Then the government still keeps the bond money but send you to the county trader to be sold again.”

He winces, “Hence the anxiety about attracting official attention.”

“Exactly. If you go broke they’ll use the bond money to pay your debts first. You have to pay that back before you can put up another bond.” Her eyes squint up and every line on her face stands out in stark relief. This is something she worries about a lot.

Before Foggy can figure out anything to say he’s interrupted by a voice on the phone. He explains the issue and inevitably they have to go find a supervisor,

“Of course I’ll hold,” he agrees, “it’s no trouble at all.”

Belle stares at him, “Are you ever not objectionably cheerful?”

“It’s my superpower. So, slave-vets, do they actually manage to be as awful as they sound?”

“You wouldn’t think it was possible but actually they’re worse.”

“Awesome,” he says flatly.

“Some aren’t too bad, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I’m hoping to do better than not too bad. Any options?”

She scowls, “The students at Columbia run a part-time free clinic.”

“And we don’t like them because – ?” 

“They all think they’re being brave and transgressive doing outreach work among slaves in the slums.”

“Ah,” he can see how that would grate.

“And they all sneer at Dr Mick for charging his patients. Of course he has to charge, the man needs to eat. And I’d far rather pay for a proper doctor’s practice that will still be here next year, than depend on a bunch of students continuing to find patronizing slaves a satisfying hobby.”

“So Dr Mick?”

“You have to pay,” she warns like this is some sort of deal breaker.

Foggy waves his arms around in frustration, because if he wanted the cheap option he wouldn’t be bothering in the first place. He doesn’t have time to explain this though before he has to deal with the supervisor at the power company.

After explaining the issue three times the supervisor accepts that they probably took the readings down wrong. He offers to put a hold on the bill and send out another electrician. Foggy agrees, and then the supervisor has to go and check with his supervisor.

“Sure I don’t mind holding,” says Foggy, “you’ve been really helpful, thank you.”

Belle stares at him, hands on her hips, “You’re not human.”

“I told you, it’s a superpower.” He grabs a pen off the desk and makes a quick note of the agent’s name on a scrap of paper before he forgets, “So Dr Mick?”

“Doctors aren’t supposed to treat slaves.”

“Why?” he asks, truly baffled. “Did they just want to be obnoxious?”

“The official reason the protectionists gave out was that doctors aren’t trained to cover all the issues slaves might experience, but obnoxiousness seems a better answer. It gets ignored a lot.”

“So where’s Dr Mick’s practice.”

“I’ll write the address down for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Any more questions?”

He wants to ask how he can help Matt, how he can makes things better, even when it’s obvious nothing will make Matt’s situation acceptable. In his ear the hold music is squeakily asking, ‘Does that make me cr-a-azy?’ And he sighs because there is no probably about it.

It’s a stupid question. And he doesn’t want to ask Belle, she’s too spiky for a soft question like that. Facts though, facts are safe.

“So, slave marks, you don’t have to show them right? Because I know some of the guys who come to my dad’s store have slaves, but you can’t tell from looking at them. In fact I’m not totally sure how I know.” 

He scratches his head because how does he know? Something in the way they speak maybe, or how they always keep one eye on their owners. The whole neighborhood knows that’s for sure, and he thinks of them all knowing about Matt and hates it.

“Yes you don’t have to show your mark, it’s only against the law to actively claim to be free when you’re not. That’s fraud and misrepresentation. They’ll arrest the owner if they’ve been selling a slave’s services as if they were free. If a slave claims they’re free it’s usually down to the owner to punish them, but if they do it continually they’ll be sent for retraining, or maybe even forcibly removed and resold.”

“But not if it’s the owner’s fault?”

“If it’s the owner’s fault the owner gets fined or jail time. It’s never the owner’s fault unless they actually catch them in the act.”

“Right. Obviously.” He doesn’t want to explore that one any further, and goes back to a step to a question that’s just occurred to him, “The bond money, how often do they increase the minimum?”

She stares at him for long moment. Foggy resists the urge to squirm.

“You ask a lot of questions, free boy.”

“Sure. You need to marshal all your facts before you make a decision.” That’s just common sense.

She smiles then, and for the first time it reaches her eyes, “You’re going to be a good lawyer, aren’t you?”

“I plan to be.”

“So the minimum, it goes up every four years or so. There originally was no minimum but they’d sell slaves between themselves cheaply and beat the system that way.”

“Clever. But they’d get you on tax evasion.”

“Only if you were unlucky. And it wasn’t actually tax they were worried about for once. The problem was back when a lot of the bigger farms were failing. They’d free their slaves, bus them to the nearest city, and kick them lose with predictably disastrous results. So they rushed in a bill to make the owners put up what was effectively bail money. If the freed slaves behaved, the owner would get their money back, otherwise they wouldn’t.”

“Making it uneconomic to free slaves unless you were sure they weren’t going to cause a problem.”

“Exactly. Of course by the time the five years was up, the government had to give the money back, which no government likes doing…”

“So they changed the rules again.”

“Yes, they decided the money was needed to pay for the monitoring of the freed slaves in bond, so,” she shifts her shoulders in a move too elegant to be called shrugging.

Foggy nods, it makes sense in a horribly logical way.

That’s obviously Belle’s limit for caring and sharing. Her face closes off and she strides smoothly across the room to fetch a pad of notepaper from the top of the filing cabinet.

“Let me write Dr Mick’s address down for you. And a note asking him to see you. He’s a known slave sympathizer so the police try and catch him out every now and then.”

“Thank you.”

As she writes, Foggy repeats the electricity meter story for the fifth time and has it agreed there will be no bill until an electrician has reviewed the meters and checked the readings and that this will be confirmed in writing. Victory.

“I’m so grateful for all your help. Thank you so much.”

He puts the phone down with relief and stretches his arms out, flexing all his fingers. Belle hands him the note for the doctor,

“There you go, super boy.”

He grins, “Thank you, you’ve been an amazing help.”

“Hey, I’ve given you what you want, you can quit being so nice now.”

“I’m always nice.”

She stares at him suspicious and smiling. Foggy can’t help himself and gives her a little wave.

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Yes ma’am. Here,” he hands her his own notes, “the electrician will be coming next Tuesday. He gives you any grief, give me a call.”

“I don’t even. Here come with me.” She grabs his wrist and tows him back out to the shop. “Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth startles from where she’s leaning over the counter talking to Matt.

“Yes?”

“Put together a box of baklava for them. No charge.”

“Oh no,” Foggy disclaims hastily. “I don’t need – ”

“You were far more help than I expected. _I_ don’t need charity.”

There’s nothing he can say to that so he just smiles, “Thank you for all your help.”

“Just stop it. You sound like a robot,” she slams back into her office.

Foggy calls after her, “It’s been great working with you,” because the opportunity to be aggravating is too much to resist and it’s not like she really minds, not the way she would if he came over all sympathetic and caring.

He’s rewarded by a faint, “Aaargh,” from behind the staff door.


	26. Chapter 26

Elizabeth abruptly shrinks away, twitching her clothes straight and her inadvertent admission away, 

“I should clean up.” She retreats behind the counter and starts to shift things around.

Matt doesn’t point out he’s already heard her clean up. “You like working for Belle?” he asks, no matter that he’s actually curious about whoever owned her before. You don’t ask anyone about previous owners. You just don’t.

“Belle has been very good to me, is very good to me.”

He smiles because of the truth in her voice, and he can’t smell any blood or pain, so it should be people-good, instead of slave-good. Mr Robert was very good to Matt, until the end. Matt knows that, and he is grateful, but Elizabeth is freed, she shouldn’t be scared all the time now.

“I was pretty useless to start with, couldn’t even talk to our customers, so she let him hide in the back and do the baking, not that I could really bake either. Belle had to get up at four o’clock to supervise me, and then work the counter all day too. I didn’t even realize how hard it was on her until she got sick and Dr Mick told me she was so exhausted she might never get completely better. Then I had to stop being a weak little pet and start dealing with things. I’m not all the way there, but I’m getting better.” She stops shifting pans from side to side and leans over the counter to speak to him directly, 

“So you don’t have to worry, Matt. Belle can be sharp but she’s never cruel. She won’t be telling your Foggy how to be mean.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Matt says, although he can hear the lie in his own heartbeat. He listens for Foggy’s voice, but Foggy is talking about electricity meters, which is safe at least. And anyway, Foggy wouldn’t be mean. “Foggy wasn’t mean even when I threw up all the nice food his mother made, or when the ladies in the library told him how useless I was. Foggy is never mean.”

And Matt is going to be so very good, it will stay that way. He isn’t sure how he’s going to manage this when he’s never managed it before, but he’s never wanted to be good so much before either. Foggy is wonderful, he deserves a good slave, and since he’s stuck with Matt, Matt is going to figure out how to be good so he can keep snuggle parties, and Matt-rules, and Foggy.

He has the strange urge to confess his worry to Elizabeth, so he stuffs a piece of baklava in his mouth to keep himself quiet.

Elizabeth kindly doesn’t call him on his lie, instead she starts to tell him about the time she burned three whole trays of muffins and she was utterly terrified Belle would throw her out,

“ – honestly I’d have preferred to be whipped, I asked her to whip me rather than make me leave, and she was so furious she shouted and shouted and I was so scared I grabbed one of the trays out the oven with my bare hands. I don’t even know what I was thinking. Of course it hurt and I dropped it on the floor and Belle yelled louder than ever and started dragging me across the floor, and I was sure she was going to make me leave but she just forced my hands under the cold tap and turned the water on.”

“That was nice,” Matt admits grudgingly. He’s going to tell her about Foggy not getting mad even when Matt got everything wrong and made Mr Edward blood-rushingly angry – because Foggy is way more wonderful and he doesn’t shout at all.

But before he can start the shop door crashes open, the bell jangling violently in protest. The man who stalks in is loud and furious, Matt tenses.

“Elizabeth,” demands the man, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Dempsey,” Elizabeth reassures, backing away. Dempsey stomps up to the counter. He’s twenty-something, strong, and boxer-light on his feet.

“They’re saying some free man is in here acting like he owns the place,” he sneers.

“It’s no problem, everything is fine,” she hunches up nervously and Matt wants to tell this Dempsey to stop being so loud at her.

“You shouldn’t be exposed to such things. You’re better than that.”

“Everything is fine,” Elizabeth whispers, but he’s blustering too much to hear her. Matt shifts, Elizabeth isn’t supposed to be scared, but unless she asks him for help he doesn’t dare interfere.

“I should call the cops. She won’t be able to act so fancy after they extend her bond for immoral behavior. And that free jerk won’t be so superior when they’re running him in for solicitation.”

“Hey,” Matt grabs his cane and stands up, “You watch what you’re saying.” This person does not get to threaten Foggy. He doesn’t care if Elizabeth gets mad.

“Oh don’t pretend,” snarls Dempsey. “Everyone knows how that bitch made the money to buy this place. I don’t know how she dares associate with decent people.”

Elizabeth and her heart are both trembling. Matt does not like this person. He taps him lightly on the shoulder and lets his face show how very unimpressed he is,

“You need to back off and stop upsetting Elizabeth.”

“You talk about her with respect.” Dempsey shoves Matt but Matt doesn’t choose to be moved and stays right where he is. Grabbing the idiot’s arm, he pulls him back from the counter and away from Elizabeth, 

“You should follow your own advice,” he says seriously. “Miss Elizabeth, do you want me to show the gentleman out?” 

“Yes, yes, please,” gasps Elizabeth.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” demands Dempsey as he struggles in Matt’s grip.

“I’m Matt,” says Matt, because that’s one thing he’s always been sure of.

“You’re acting awfully uppity for somebody’s pet. I think I’ll have to have words.”

It checks Matt’s temper for a moment because that never goes well. Then he remembers this is Foggy, Foggy who hadn’t let that other man hassle Elizabeth, he’s not going to be mad Matt didn’t let this man act mean.

“Sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Matt says, all Miss Evangeline-sweet while he tightens his grip because unlike that other man this one is young and has had some sort of training. Matt doesn’t want it to devolve into a fight – he can take him, but they might damage something if they fight in Belle’s shop.

“Elizabeth,” Dempsey appeals, “Why are you being like this, I’m just worried about you. I want you to be safe.”

“Sure,” Matt agrees, “that’s why you’re shouting and upsetting her. You’re acting like an _owner_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Release me immediately.” He tries to pull away from Matt, but Matt’s ready for him, he bends and yanks and has Dempsey’s arm twisted up behind his back.

“Let’s go.”

The idiot struggles for a moment but Matt just twists his trapped arm higher. He groans and turns to Elizabeth,

“Surely you’re not going to let this lunatic treat me like this?”

Elizabeth takes a deep breath, she’s shaking harder than ever but her words are clear,

“Matt, please show the man out. And Dempsey, Belle was a _slave_. I get that you might not understand given the only person who owned you was your father and he freed you before you were eight, but being a slave means you don’t have a _choice_. Now get the hell out.”

Dempsey is still spluttering as Matt drags him to the door and shoves him outside. For a moment he thinks the idiot is just going to try and come barreling back in, instead he yells,

“I’ll come back when you’re feeling more reasonable.”

“Don’t bother,” says Elizabeth. Matt shuts the door and leans against. He thinks Elizabeth is crying, he can smell the salt in the air. He starts walking towards her, remembers he’s been acting suspiciously sighted for the last five minutes, and deliberately stumbles over a stray chair.

“Matt”” Elizabeth yelps and she hurries around the counter towards him. “Are you okay?”

He picks himself up. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She’s hovering a few inches away from him, anxious but not willing to touch, which Matt appreciates.

“I’ve lost my bearings,” he lies, “could you help me back?” He holds out one arm and accepts her awkward assistance. She holds his arm just a bit longer than necessary,

“Thank you,” she whispers, “please don’t tell Belle.”

He doesn’t think that’s a sensible plan, but it’s not his decision, “Not if you don’t want me to.”

“Thank you,” she whispers again, then back behind the safety of the counter, she asks, more loudly, “Which type of baklava is your favorite?”

“The one with pistachios and almonds is nice, there’s a spice in it, smells really rich.” Matt should know what it is. Stick would be disappointed in him, all those lessons wasted. Not that Stick taught him with happy-tasting things like baklava, he might be able to remember better then, instead of trying to filter out an endless array of individual spices from the weird mixes Stick tested him on.

“Cardamom,” says Elizabeth. “If you like that, Belle makes these lovely cardamom spiced cakes. We don’t have any at the moment but perhaps you can persuade your Foggy to come back sometime.”

Matt shrugs his shoulders, because he has no control over that. Then he thinks how Foggy brought him here because he asked, obviously Foggy didn’t find it inconvenient but still, he brought Matt here because he asked, so he smiles at Elizabeth and says, “Maybe.”

“Good. Although I can’t promise there’ll be baklava, we usually only make it every couple of months so we can be sure people will be tempted. It’s too expensive to risk wastage.”

“Huh,” Matt eats another square of baklava and listens to Elizabeth explain how it’s made.

He’s mostly focused on the taste with Elizabeth’s words a reassuring background hum, so he startles badly when Foggy bounces out from the back the shop. Matt hastily checks on him but he doesn’t sound angry, or even agitated, so Matt allows himself to calm down.

“Matt, you okay buddy? You haven’t drunk much of your soda.”

His face screws up at thought of the sickly fake taste but obediently fumbles for the glass.

“Oh no,” says Foggy, “You don’t have to drink it if you don’t like it buddy.”

“But I asked for it.”

“Sure, and it’s good you wanted to try new stuff, but you don’t have to keep drinking it.”

“Good?” Matt checks.

“Absolutely. Half the fun in life is trying new stuff.”

Matt cocks his head to one side and tries not to let his puzzlement show because fun has never really been a requirement before.

“With that in mind, since I’ve never tried that brand, may I have a sip of your soda?”

“Of course.” He doesn’t understand why Foggy felt the need to ask.

“Thank you.” Foggy takes a cautious sip, “Oh my, that is sweet isn’t it. I think we’ll have to give it a pass in future.” He drinks his own soda and takes a bite of his cookie. “Are you ready to go?”

Matt quickly gets to his feet. Foggy collects a box of baklava and a thank you from Elizabeth, and they leave.

“Alright,” says Foggy, “let’s go make you a doctor’s appointment.”

Matt goes cold to the bone.


	27. Chapter 27

Matt keeps walking because he can’t make his owner mad, but his senses all go swimmy and he has to clutch Foggy’s arm for real. He feels frozen inside the unfamiliar clothes. His mouth opens and he’s half a breath from begging but he bites it back.

He can’t make fuss, but please, please, slave-vets are awful enough, doctors are even worse.

Slave-vets are brisk and harsh but they don’t _enjoy_ hurting. Nobody who enjoys hurting would bother to train as a slave-vet, there are easier ways to get their kicks. The slave-vets who maintained them at the Farmer’s Co-Operative had never done anything worse than be particularly thorough when they sprayed him down with disinfectant, because he was blind and couldn’t be trusted to clean himself properly.

They were tough and proud, they didn’t carry guns the way the overseers did but solid leather strops to discipline the unruly. Matt tried not to be but he cringed every time he heard the soft clank of the bolt guns holstered on their belts. 

If a slave couldn’t work, they were useless and there was no time to waste on recuperation, so if a slave injured themselves, like Jamie, one of the cohort from the orphanage, who fell out of a tree and broke his leg, the slave-vet would be called out to finish them off. Unprepared to waste a bullet, they used the bolt gun against the back of his neck to put him down.

Matt can still hear the slick-squish of the bolt gun penetrating the brain pan. He can’t remember much else because he’d started screaming and one of the older slaves had taken pity and covered his mouth and nose with the sleeve of their jumpsuit until Matt could no longer draw enough air through the rough material and passed out.

When Terry broke his arm, Matt tripped the slave sent to fetch the overseers, argued the three slaves in charge into compliance, and punched the one he couldn’t convince. Then, gritting his teeth and trying not to listen to the boy’s high whines, he set Terry’s arm, not as well as doctor would, but his sense of touch was good enough and Stick had talked him through bone-setting for emergencies. (He brought a dead body for Matt to practice on, cold waxy flesh and formaldehyde and the dead meat smell that clung to Matt’s fingers for weeks).

He strapped Terry’s arm up and then strapped it to Terry’s chest. Marek an older slave who was sleeping with one of the overseers fetched a couple of aspirin and as started to work, Terry’s whimpering faded out. Then Matt bullied them all into agreeing to help complete Terry’s work for the six weeks or so it would take to heal.

“Such a fucking tall poppy,” Marek muttered.

Matt ended up sold to Mr David before Terry’s arm had finished healing.

So no, Matt didn’t like slave-vets, but they were better than doctors. You were a job to slave-vets, to a doctor you were _entertainment_.

The doctor Mr Robert had paid to look after him cleaned up his hands and made sure he had plenty of antibiotics but he held back the painkillers until he felt Matt had begged enough. No matter how Matt tried, eventually his body would refuse to listen to his mind, and he’d beg even as he burned with humiliation. Then the doctor would make Matt call heads or tails to see if he would actually be allowed pain relief. The man never once lied about the result either, which just made it worse, because if Matt could just call it right…

He’d been so grateful when Mr Robert took him home from the hospital he hadn’t minded saying thank you at all.

Mr Robert hadn’t made him go back, but Miss Evangeline, she liked to call on her doctor-friends if she felt her pets were showing a lack of enthusiasm because if they weren’t happy at being included her little family they must be sick. The doctor-friends were always eager to help and the slave in question usually improved dramatically. Laetitia hadn’t though (her real name was Hannah but Miss Evangeline liked stupid names, she thought Tristam was a great name). One of the doctors said she needed extra attention and came every day for a week. Laetitia stopped screaming three days in and eventually just lay there shivering no matter what the doctor did. Miss Evangeline was very upset when they had to put Laetitia down and ordered a gravestone made of imported Italian marble and buried her ashes in the garden.

Matt crept out one night and dug up the box. He figured letting her ashes float free on the breeze was way more respectful than leaving her stuck in Miss Evangeline’s garden until Judgement day. He had to tell Miss Evangeline he’d gone tree climbing to explain the scrapes on his hands and Miss Evangeline had confined him to the house until he could be trusted not to hurt himself and called in the doctor. Matt still thinks it was worth it, though it didn’t make him like doctors any better.

And now, for the first time, he regrets the Matt-rule because, if he was able to plead with his body, maybe he could have convinced his owner not to abandon him to a doctor.

 

It isn’t until they’re just outside the doctor’s clinic that Foggy realizes Matt has gone pale and shaky-quiet. It’s not obvious because Matt is always pale and quiet, but this isn’t normal. Every hint of expression has leached from his face and he’s moving with the deliberate care of the drunk or disorientated. 

“Matt? Buddy, you okay?”

There’s a pause as Matt visibly processes the words, then his head turns towards him, so slowly he can almost hear the creak,

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh, sure buddy, whatever you say.” 

The sarcasm seems to pass unnoticed as, conversation over, Matt’s head creakily turns to face forward.

Like hell. “Matt, please tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Foggy stops them both and steps in front of Matt and grips his forearms gently, “Matt, it’s okay. I’m not taking you to a slave-vet, this is a proper doctor.”

“Doctors are worse,” Matt says quietly, voice hollow with old pain. 

“Oh, oh shit.” Foggy smacks himself on the head, because what about Matt’s life being appalling isn’t he getting. “This doctor will be different, I promise. I asked Belle at the bakery for a good doctor. He won’t hurt you.”

Matt nods obediently, clearly not believing it.

“And I’ll stay with you if you want.”

Matt’s head comes up so fast he actually stumbles, “You’ll stay with me?”

“Yes.” Now is clearly not the time to try and give Matt his medical privacy. Besides just cause this doctor is nice to Belle didn’t mean he’d be nice to Matt. Belle could walk away if she wanted to, Matt is stuck. It’s probably a good idea to supervise until he’s sure at the very least Matt will call him if there’s a problem.

Color returns to Matt’s face and he smiles wide and fragile, “Thank you.”

“I’m going to look after you Matt, but if there’s a problem, or something scares you, you have to tell me so I can fix it.”

“Yes Foggy,” and, although this could be Foggy’s wishful thinking, it sounds like there’s some actual agreement in there instead of parroted obedience.

“Good. Now come on and let’s get you an appointment. I promise I won’t leave you alone.”

Matt’s lips quirk, sudden and delighted.

“Matt?”

His head tilts consideringly, then he smiles tentatively and shares the joke, “It’s not being alone that I’m worried about.”

Foggy laughs out loud, mostly because he wants Matt to realize joking’s okay but there’s also relief of tension and a little bit because it’s funny in a really morbid way.

Matt’s smile settles on his face and together they walk up to the clinic door.

It’s not as busy as he would have expected. There are three patients waiting, one reading a magazine, the other two staring into space. The reception desk is actually a large table with two small chests of drawers shoved underneath. The receptionist can’t be much older than him, and is surrounded by books and papers in a way that that reminds him of his own desk. She looks up at their entrance and her bright smile freezes and is replaced with wary caution.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

Foggy smiles his best smile. “We’re here to book an appointment with Dr Mick.”

“The doctor isn’t taking any more patients at this time.”

“Ms Belle at the bakery said we should give him this note.” He holds out it out and hopes that her increased guardedness isn’t too bad a sign.

 

The receptionist startles badly when Foggy mentions the note from Belle. Matt can hear her tapping her fingers anxiously again her thighs beneath the desk. She takes a deep breath but all she says is,

“Dr Mick is between patients at the moment, if you are prepared to wait I’ll take it in to him.”

“Thank you,” says Foggy as she takes the note. She hands him some paperwork in return, then walks calmly around the corner but Matt can hear her feet pick up speed until she’s running. A door clicks and she’s saying, “Dr Mick, somebody just came in with a note from Belle. I think it’s that free boy everyone is talking about.”

“Oh really,” says Dr Mick.

Matt stops himself listening, focusing on Foggy’s steady heartbeat instead as Foggy starts to fill out the forms. He tightens his grip on Foggy’s arm and Foggy places his hand over his, not to pry him loose but just resting there, warm and safe. Foggy said he won’t let the doctor hurt him and Matt wants so much to believe him. Nothing’s hurt yet with Foggy. Matt thinks when it does something inside him is going to break irreparably.

 

The receptionist comes back in a flurry of skirts and wide eyes. Foggy shifts uncomfortably, he feels like a cat set amongst a flock of pigeons, and Foggy is not a cat, okay, he’s one of those stupid sort of dogs that doesn’t do much more than sleep and eat socks.

She smooths her skirt and attempts to look professional and put together but instead mostly looks scared, “Dr Mick will see you right away, sir.”

“Thank you,” he tries to smile reassuringly. He doesn’t think it works.

“Come this way please, sir.”

The clinic is definitely an old building, the carpet is a mess of worn stains and they pass a bookcase that appears one good push from collapse, but the walls have been painted relatively recently and it smells clean.

When the receptionist opens the office door it swings wildly because the bottom hinge is only hanging by a thread. Foggy’s fingers itch for a screwdriver because that’s the sort of thing you need to fix before you wrench the top hinge out of true and end up having to replace the whole door.

Behind a computer so old it should probably run on steam power sits a tired looking man. Dr Mick doesn’t look anything like a doctor. He has slumped shoulders, stubble, and big round sorry eyes. 

Foggy wonders if he should ask to his medical certificate, is that a thing you do with doctors? but decides he should trust Belle. He wants somebody to be good to Matt, and clearly they won’t be normal because normal is all about hurting Matt. Fuck normal.

“Good morning,” says Dr Mick, he’s running the note Belle wrote him through his thick blunt fingers. It didn’t say much, the note, Foggy checked. It just asked if Mick could squeeze them into his schedule. Foggy wouldn’t think it was worth all that contemplation.

“Good morning,” He smiles broad and fake. “Thank you for seeing us so fast. It’s not an emergency, Matt just needs a health check.”

“I had an opening in my schedule,” says Dr Mick. “So you’re the owner?”

Foggy shifts his shoulders uneasily at being reduced to _owner_ in that slightly scornful tone, but really he’s being a wuss again, if Matt has to deal with slave, Foggy can suck it up and cope with owner.

“Yes. Matt hasn’t had a health check in… When did you last have a general health check?”

Matt’s gone all sharp-edged again and smiles that nasty smile that hurts Foggy’s heart, “I haven’t had a general health check for years, but Miss Evangeline’s doctors were always very thorough at checking for STDs.”

That’s, Foggy’s not going to think about that too hard in case the need to go punch something overwhelms him.

“So general health check,” he says brightly.


	28. Chapter 28

“I can arrange that,” says Dr Mick. “I have the information sheet you completed, so please go and wait outside.”

Matt doesn’t seem to move but his hand is suddenly clutching Foggy’s arm so hard it should leave bruises.

“I’m staying to keep an eye on things.” Foggy explains patiently. “Vulnerable people are allowed to keep advocates with them.” He can hear Matt huff at the idea of being vulnerable but Matt still hasn’t let go of his arm, so Matt is going to have to put up with it.

“Advocate, huh?”

Foggy’s getting the impression Dr Mick doesn’t like him, although he has no idea why.

“I’ll get a gown for him to change into.” Dr Mick pushes heavily to his feet.

“Wait, what? I’ve had health checks, there’s never been any need to get undressed.”

“How else am I to do a full inspection?”

“Matt doesn’t need to be inspected. I just want to be sure he’s not sick.” He turns to Matt, who seems to have shrunk since they walked into the consulting room, clinging to his arm small and scared,

“Do you want,” he starts.

“No,” says Matt immediately, “No please Foggy, I’ll be good.”

Foggy pinches the bridge of his nose hoping to dislodge his incipient tension headache. At some point he’s going have to explain to Matt that getting sick has nothing to do with being good or bad, and somehow convince Matt to believe it. He’ll leave that for later though, maybe after he’s taken up drinking. Drinking makes everything easier, right?

“Mr Nelson?” prompts Dr Mick and Foggy glances over his shoulder for his dad before it dawns on him. He wishes his dad was here, but dad is so completely freaked out he might not help much. Matt’s depending on him, Foggy has to be an adult about this.

Medical attention is a good and necessary thing, but Foggy has been keeping an eye open and Matt’s moving quickly and easily with no wincing so he doesn’t seem in urgent need of help. Given that, should he really force Matt to undress for a full examination when he doesn’t want one. He kind of forced Matt into the doctor’s office in the first place.

Alright, let’s be real here, he totally forced Matt into the doctor’s office. But Matt is so skinny, and he got sick that one time. Not eating enough can cause all sorts of damage. He just wants to be sure Matt’s heart and lungs are working okay. 

So they can do that. There’s no need to make it complicated.

“Matt doesn’t need to get undressed if he doesn’t want to, a stethoscope should be fine.”

“I can’t asses him for plastic surgery without a physical inspection.”

“I, no, what?” Foggy grabs Matt close, “Who said anything about plastic surgery?”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to see a doctor as opposed to a slave-vet? They’re not trained to perform plastic surgery and scar removal. I should warn you though too many repeated skin grafts in the same location will cause the underlying tissue to permanently degrade. You also need to consider – ”

“Shut the hell up,” Foggy yells, having finally found his voice. Matt’s face is icy pale again and his lips are moving soundlessly. Foggy rubs in arm in an attempt at comfort and glares at the stupid doctor, “just shut up, right now.”

The doctor watches him for a long moment, “Why did you decide to visit my clinic Mr Nelson?”

“Because I believed Belle when she told me you were the best choice. Which was clearly incredibly stupid of me. Come on Matt, we can do better than this.”

“Wait,” says the doctor, “I may have misunderstood your requirements Mr Nelson. What exactly is it you want in relation to your slave?”

He dithers for a moment, but he doesn’t want to go through all this again, and as long as he’s here he can make sure nothing bad happens. He squares his shoulders,

“Matt’s underweight – ”

The affronted squawk from Matt at that comment makes him smile despite his annoyance, it has to be the most adorable thing Foggy’s ever heard.

“Sorry buddy, but you are,” he rubs his thumb against Matt’s hand in apology. “I want to make sure he’s not too underweight. And they had him in this awful cage where he could barely sit up straight, that has to be bad for lung function long term.”

“Very astute,” the doctor looks surprised. 

Foggy glares some more, “Not just a pretty face.”

“Indeed. And you are correct. Compromised lung function is a symptom of long term case use.”

“He wasn’t _using_ the cage. He was trapped in it.”

The doctor smiles, “Very true, my mistake. There are exercises that will help his rehabilitation. I will provide you with the details.”

“Thank you,” says Foggy grudgingly.

 

Matt holds onto Foggy’s hand as the doctor directs him to stand on a set of scales, and then to stand with his back against the wall. The doctor keeps stepping close and then away, it makes him flinch but he’s not really scared because Foggy _stays_. 

Foggy stays and he doesn’t let the doctor make Matt put on one those paper gowns designed to leave you exposed and open. He gets angry when the doctor talks about hurting Matt.

Foggy yells and Matt can hear the fury roaring around his body but it’s not scary at all because Foggy’s still holding him close and all that rage is directed at the person who wants to hurt him. It’s… Foggy is protecting him.

It makes Matt feel shaky all over. Nobody’s got angry for him since his dad shouted at the nurses who said he was being fussy when he complained the hospital sheets scraped at his skin.

When the doctor tells Matt to open his mouth for the thermometer, Foggy snaps,

“Just give it to him. He can tuck it under his own tongue, can’t you Matt?”

“Yes Foggy,” he agrees gratefully because he can and it is much better than the doctor poking him. He holds his hand out, the thermometer is placed against his palm, and Matt takes his own temperature.

“Very good,” says the doctor. “Mr Nelson, would like to apply the blood pressure cuff.”

“Sure,” says Foggy, “just tell me what to do.”

Matt curls into Foggy and trusts that he will keep him safe.

 

Foggy decides that maybe this doctor is alright after all. He starts being careful with Matt, which Foggy approves of. With the stethoscope the doctor doesn’t touch Matt any more than necessary, directing Matt to tug his t-shirt aside, and warning before he presses the cold metal to his chest so he can listen to his heart and lungs.

Matt hangs on to Foggy’s hand tightly, 

“They’re fine,” he mutters rebelliously, “I can tell.”

“They are reasonably average for a confined slave,” confirms the doctor, “But your heart has a higher resting beat than I like and your lungs are definitely not being used to their full capacity. You need regular gentle exercise to get you back into fighting trim.” He shuffles through a drawer and come up with a fuzzily photo-copied sheet, “Here are some breathing exercises that will help.” 

The doctor goes to hand it to Matt, winces, and then squares his shoulders and turns to Foggy, he’s no longer kind like he was with Matt, but imploring,

“Mr Nelson, I sincerely recommend you allow your slave some time to…”

“Yes, yes fine,” Foggy agrees with a snarl because he can’t stand hearing Matt called his slave, can’t stand hearing the doctor talk like he might not allow Matt the help he needs to heal. He snatches the print out from the doctor and quickly stuffs it away in his pocket.

“Very good, Mr Nelson.” He turns back to Matt, “Kid, I want to check the glands in your neck, I’m going to put my hands either side of your throat. I will press down but only with my fingertips. If it gets too much, say pause.”

“Yes sir,” says Matt.

The doctor sighs. Foggy squeezes Matt’s hand to remind him he’s still there.

“Ready,” the doctor warns, before he starts pressing at Matt’s neck. And that is kind of him, to take account of Matt’s lack of sight like that. Which prompts Foggy,

“Can you have a look at Matt’s eyes, see if there’s any sort of treatment that could help?”

Matt lets go of his hand, “My dad tried everything when I got damaged,” he hisses, “you can’t fix me.”

Foggy catches Matt’s hand in both of his, “I know he did Matt, but that was nearly ten years ago, things might have moved on. There are advances all the time. I need to be sure.”

Something must get through to Matt because, while he still looks dubious, he says, “Okay,” and holds his head still while the doctor shines the light in his unresponsive eyes. The doctor sucks his breath through his teeth in a very unencouraging way.

“You sure did a number on your eyes, kid. There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help, Mr Nelson. Unless you wanted to sign him up for a medical trial.”

“God no.” Even he isn’t naïve enough to think slaves on a medical trial is anything other than a horrendous idea.

“Good call,” says the doctor. “You’re lucky that mess of a retina is so unfixable or you’d have been co-opted before now, kid.”

“I’d die first,” says Matt with easy conviction, as if he’d already planned it out.

“Also a good call.”

Foggy hates the way they’re talking, like Matt dying is the best option. It’s not that he thinks they’d be wrong under circumstances, it’s just the relaxed way they say it, like it wouldn’t even matter, as if they understand each other in a way Foggy can’t.

He huffs.

The doctor looks at him, “Now Mr Nelson, do you need me to check to the pharyngeal reflex?” He pulls out a set of plastic gloves.

“What is that? Is that the hitting your knee with a hammer thing, I didn’t think they did that anymore? Why do you need gloves?”

The doctor smiles at him, it’s not a nice smile, “Colloquially known as the gag reflex.”

Foggy is going to hit him any moment now, “No way in hell. What sort of doctor are you anyway?”

“It’s a standard slave test.”

“And if I wanted the standard slave tests, I’d have gone to a slave-vet.”

“Fine,” the doctor almost looks approving for a moment. Then he looks directly at Matt, “Kid, I wish there was a nicer way for asking but do you need – ”

“No,” says Matt loudly, pulling himself away from the doctor, “No I don’t. Foggy, please.”

Again Foggy dithers, because God he didn’t even think, but Matt doesn’t move like he hurts, he has no problems sitting down,

“You sure you don’t need help, Matt? I can leave the room if you want me to?”

“No,” gasps Matt, “no Foggy, please, please.”

“We’re done then.” Foggy nods his head firmly. Now that he’s thinking those thoughts, it would be a relief to have the doctor confirm Matt’s okay, but he’s not going to order Matt to basically let himself be raped just for Foggy’s peace of mind. Sure it would technically be a medical procedure but Matt’s in no position to appreciate the difference. Right now Foggy can’t appreciate the difference.

“Alright then,” the doctor sighs. “Mr Nelson, your slave – ”

“Can you please just call him Matt and me Foggy.”

“As you wish. Matt is as you said underweight and his lung function is compromised. However with regular meals and exercise, I see no reason why there should be any long-term problems. I’d like to see him again in a month’s time to evaluate his progress, and ensure his recovery is proceeding as expected.”

“Great,” he jumps to his feet, “we’ll be going then, come on Matt.”

He’d be dragging Matt along except Matt is moving even faster than he is. Finally out of the clinic, Foggy heaves a sigh of relief, 

“I am so sorry about that buddy. But thank you for doing that for me.” He just manages to stop himself saying, _please don’t hate me too much._

“You stayed with me,” says Matt, as if that somehow made up for forcing him into a medical examination he didn’t want.

“Of course I did. I told you I would. So alright, that was my pick, you get to choose what we do next.”

“Me?”

“You.”

Matt’s silent for a long time as they walk along but it feels like a thoughtful silence rather than an upset one, so Foggy keeps his mouth shut and replays his last debate speech to stop himself interrupting Matt’s thought processes.

Finally Matt says, “It’s stupid.”

“If you want to do it, it’s not stupid.”

Matt sighs and presses into side, “Can we,” he whispers, “can we go and see the river. I know I can’t see it really but,” he traces one hand wistfully through the air, “I can still _feel_ it.”

Foggy scrunches his eyes up tight because they’re starting to water,

“Yeah buddy, we can do that.”


	29. Chapter 29

Matt is glad to walk away from the doctor’s even it wasn’t anything as mean as he feared because Foggy doesn’t let things be mean, Foggy makes everything better. It frustrates him unbearably there isn’t someway for him to demonstrate how grateful he is. There must be something he can do that Foggy wants, there has to be some acceptable way of saying thank you. He wonders if he dare ask Mrs Anna and turns the idea of over in his mind as they walk back to the house – Foggy says they need to take the shopping back before they do anything else.

When they get back Mrs Anna greets Foggy with a kiss on the cheek and a thank you. Then she turns to Matt,

“Matt, may I hug you?”

He’s not sure why she keeps asking, but of course he says yes and she does hug him. It’s better now he knows what to expect, but it still feels awkward, like he isn’t doing something right. But it doesn’t make him feel like he wants to scrub the contact away either so it’s mostly nice. He’s still glad when she lets him go, he definitely prefers it when Foggy hugs him.

Mrs Anna goes back to her work in the living room, and Foggy leads Matt into the kitchen.

“Sandwiches,” he exclaims as he opens the fridge door letting out a rush of cool air. “Matt, do you want ham, or Swiss cheese, or cream cheese or, Mom can we have tuna?”

“If you like, treasure,” Mrs Anna calls back, “but make sure you wash up the bowl.”

“Yes Mom. So Matt, what do you want? Swiss cheese, cream cheese, ham, or tuna? Or you can have a mixture? Although I don’t think ham and tuna would go together. But up to you.”

Matt knows what he’d like, but he’s not sure…

“Come on buddy,” Foggy encourages, “to go with we have lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes, ooh, and dill pickles. Mom, can we open the dill pickles?”

“Only if you save some for me and your dad."

Matt taps the back of one hand anxiously and decides he can try. Foggy might say no, but he doesn’t think he’ll discipline Matt for asking. 

Not like Mr Robert, who’d belted Matt across the room when he’d plucked up the courage to ask if he could have lemonade instead of cola, telling him he’d drink what he was damn well given. He’d put Matt on water rations for a month after that, which was a bit of a failure as a punishment because Matt preferred water to the tar taste of cola (Matt did not point that out to Mr Robert). 

And if Foggy would, surely it would be better to find out now – except some scared shameful part of Matt would like to keep the illusion going for as long as possible. Furious with himself for being so weak, Matt forces himself to ask,

“Mustard?”

“Ick no,” yelps Foggy, “You can’t seriously want mustard.”

“No Foggy, sorry,” he says meekly. And maybe he doesn’t get to eat what he wants, but Foggy didn’t get mad so that’s something. Matt bites his lip. It’s okay, really. 

He blinks away the faint hope for more, focuses again, and realizes he was wrong. Foggy is getting mad, he can hear the anger pounding through him. Matt tenses in readiness as Foggy explodes,

“Shut the fuck up, Nelson.” The sharp smack makes Matt flinch and it takes him a second to work out that actually Foggy slapped the back of his own hand,

“Foggy?” he asks tentatively, not sure what’s going on.

“I’m sorry Matt, I being an idiot again. Of course you can have mustard if you want it.”

Matt doesn’t understand anything. He tries to step back but stumbles into the table, “I don’t need mustard,” he says hastily, holding his hands out to try and fend off his confusion.

“Obviously you don’t need mustard. Nobody _needs_ mustard. They might _like_ mustard though. They might like mustard a lot and then it’s perfectly okay to eat it, you know, in a sandwich not like with a spoon or anything because that would just be really gross, although if you wanted to that would be super fine, okay?”

Unable to follow the rush of words, Matt whimpers.

The jars clatter against the counter as Foggy put them down, then his footsteps shuffle across the floor to Matt and his hand curls lightly around Matt’s arm.

“Ssh Matt, it’s okay. I’m sorry.” His voice has gone slow and gentle and Matt can’t help relaxing, “I’m explaining myself badly. What I meant to say was that while I personally don’t like mustard it doesn’t mean you can’t choose to eat mustard if you want.”

“But if you don’t like it…” Matt tries to squirm away. He’s pulled back, but it isn’t harsh, just a soft tug on his arm and Matt finds himself turning back to Foggy naturally.

“Then I don’t have to have it on my sandwich. Nobody here has to eat anything they don’t want to.” Foggy rubs Matt’s arm and Matt is irrationally soothed, “But you, you do like mustard so you can have it on your food if you want. I’m not going to eat your food so it doesn’t bother me. Do you understand?”

No. “Yes.”

“Good. So what did you want with mustard?”

Matt’s so befuddled by the kindness he can’t keep up his anxiety. Besides, being punished for telling the truth is always better than being punished for guessing wrong. “Ham and lettuce, please.”

“Okay then,” says Foggy as if it truly was that simple. “You want to come make it up? If I lay out the fixings can you make your own sandwiches?”

“Of course I can,” Matt snaps, pride caught on the raw. He’s not helpless. Then he remembers himself. “Sorry, I mean yes I can, thank you.”

“No, no,” says Foggy, “It was a dumb question, I get it. But you have to cut me some slack. I have no idea what you can or can’t do, I only know how stranded I’d be if I suddenly lost my sight.”

Matt hadn’t thought of it like that. And Foggy isn’t like some of the nuns who always assumed he couldn’t do anything for himself. There was one sister who ‘helped’ at meal times by moving Matt’s water glass nearer to him which meant Matt couldn’t know where it was from memory and he’d inevitably knock it over. Once Stick had trained him to recognize temperature differentials, Matt took great delight in asking her not to move his glass just as she reached out for it which started her muttering about him having the devil in him. Matt always made sure turn his head her direction like he was watching her.

“My dad got someone help me afterwards,” he offers, because he’s not talking about Stick to anyone. “with how to work around it.”

“Cool,” says Foggy. “My dad’s still fighting with the hospital to get somebody to come out. Apparently being a slave means you don’t need help with things like that. Which is ridiculous when you think about it. It would make more sense the other way around.”

Matt doesn’t know how to feel about that. It rubs his face in his uselessness – naturally they want him to be able to work, it makes sense they’d get someone to train him up – except at the same time, they’re working to fix him. None of his previous owners have ever done that, they just punished him when he messed up.

“So sandwiches,” Foggy pushes him gently up to the counter. “Here,” he taps his fingernails against a wooden board right in front of Matt, “Bread board and bread. Four slices. Mustard and butter on your far right,” the jar and dish clink against the counter, “Lettuce in front of that,” it flops into place, “And ham on your immediate right,” the paper packet rustles into place. “Oh, and knife.” A cold metal handle pokes at Matt’s left hand and he curves his fingers around it.

“Thank you,” he says blankly. He completely believes that Foggy has laid out the food he asked for and is utterly shocked at himself.

With no idea what else to do, he makes himself sandwiches.

After Foggy puts away the shopping he makes his own sandwiches, cream cheese and pickle by smell, and throws two handfuls of tiny tomatoes into a Tupperware box.

“You alright with water?” he asks, as the tap squeaks and water gurgles into a bottle. “Mom doesn’t like us drinking too much soda.”

“I like water.” Soda would completely over power the taste of the sandwiches. Normally Matt wouldn’t mind but with food he actually likes, he wants to savor the taste as long as possible.

“Great. Okay. Water, sandwiches, tomatoes. Matt, dill pickles, yes or no?”

Caught off-guard Matt replies, “Yes,” before he thinks it through. A jar pops open and he can smell the sharp vinegar as Foggy fills another Tupperware box with pickles.

“And cereal bars, apricot or cranberry, Matt?”

“Cranberry.” This decision thing is getting easier, Matt notes.

“Alright then.” Foggy shovels everything into a bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Central Park sounds a great place for a picnic, right?”

Matt thinks regretfully of the wide open tumble of the Hudson, but Central Park is a better place for picnic. He understands, maybe they can visit the river another day. He nods his head.

“Good. We’ll go there once with visited the river. It’s a bit of a walk but it will do us good. You tell me if you get tired, though. We can stop anytime.”

Matt decides it’s not his fault he’s permanently confused. Foggy is enough to confuse anybody. He bets he could even confuse Stick.


	30. Chapter 30

When they get to the river Matt fills his lungs and breathes. He knows it’s not beautiful, he can’t recall a particular view but he remembers the concrete block buildings and murky grey waters; the open air, though, and the faint brush of water against his skin and the deep rumble of the river, it _feels_ beautiful. He tilts his head up at the sky.

Foggy’s heart which had been steady, picks up a bit. Matt turns his head towards him.

“Sorry,” Foggy mutters, “you’re smiling, it’s nice.”

Matt holds Foggy’s arm tighter. Foggy is so nice. He stayed with Matt all through the doctors just like he said he would. And he didn’t let the doctor put his hands all over Matt like Matt was his to play with.

He takes another deep breath and rolls his shoulders back.

“Huh,” says Foggy.

“What?”

“It’s nothing, I just hadn’t realized how stooped you were standing. You must be close to my height. I guess I knew that with you borrowing my clothes and all but I hadn’t really noticed before.”

“Is that bad?” Matt checks. 

“No, it’s a good thing, I promise.” Foggy’s body sings truth, truth, so Matt lets himself be reassured. Tilting his head into the wind, he allows the river overwhelm his senses. 

When he was able to see the river it had hardly looked like it was moving but now he can hear, he can hear the fierce roll of the water and it makes everything else seem insignificant with its raw relentless power. 

He could stand there forever but beside him Foggy’s body is starting to shift and twitch infinitesimally with boredom.

Matt sighs, “It’s okay, we can go.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” He can’t risk Foggy becoming impatient with him, besides it’s not fair to make Foggy stand around while Matt listens to the river. “Thank you.”

“It was your turn. Now let’s go eat lunch.”

As Matt walks away, Foggy’s hand gentle on his arm, some of the peace of the river stays with him.

 

Foggy keeps quiet on the walk to the Park because he doesn’t want to disturb the serenity in Matt’s face. He doesn’t understand why Matt likes listening to the Hudson so much but he can see that he does. He’ll make sure they come back regularly, the walk will be good for both of them.

Because the doctor was right about that, Matt was locked inside too long, he’ll need time before he’s back to full strength. The walk to Central Park is too much for him, he’s wheezing softly by the time they get there, but he doesn’t say anything and Foggy keeps them going until they get to the Pond because he wants Matt to be able to enjoy the water. And sitting in the sunshine in the Park watching the light glint on the water is the sort of water-watching Foggy can get behind.

He picks a suitable spot, slings the bag off his shoulder and settles himself on a nice patch of grass. Matt scrambles down after him, he’s viciously pale in the bright sunlight. Foggy watches him out the corner of his eye as he unpacks their bag. Matt wriggles his fingers through the grass, then lifts them up so he can sniff them and the fresh grass smell.

“You can take your shoes and sock off as well, if you like.” He feels guilty when Matt jumps as if he’d slapped him, but then, attention clearly focused on his reaction, Matt cautiously tugs off his sneakers and socks, tucking the socks into the sneakers and setting them tidily to one side.

Matt rolls his ankles a couple of times, feet arching like they’re enjoying the fresh air too, then he digs his toes in the grass. His awed smile is so young and open it’s painful. Foggy ducks his head and focuses on unwrapping their sandwiches.

When he thinks his heart can stand it, he peeks again. Matt’s clearly forgotten him. His face is titled up to the sun, his feet flexing gently against the soft grass as his fingers comb through the cool strands.

Foggy turns away again because that’s private and as much as he wants to share Matt’s delight he’s not going to disrupt that intensely personal delight for his own satisfaction. Unclipping the Tupperware he splits the tomatoes and pickles between them, and pulls out the water bottles.

The sharp whistle cuts through the peaceful hubbub of the park. It makes Foggy jump, and he’s not surprised that Matt scuttles away, coming up crouched on his heels, head turning as he searches for danger.

“You are such a cat.”

Matt’s head stops turning and he stares directly at Foggy. He knows Matt can’t see him but all the same he feels disconcertingly pinned in place.

“It’s okay. It was just some idiot. Come eat your sandwich.” He holds them out.

For a second Matt doesn’t move, remaining still and waiting, then he softens and crawls back to him. Mid-crawl, he stutters, flushing red and looking miserably self-conscious. Foggy absolutely refuses to think about why while they’re here in the Park and Matt had been very nearly happy. He shakes the bags,

“Sandwiches, they won’t eat themselves.”

Matt’s forehead wrinkles up in puzzlement,

“How would that work, sandwiches eating themselves?”

“They don’t, that’s the point.”

“You are very strange.”

“All the best people are,” Foggy says cheerfully and laughs at Matt’s sudden quirk of a grin.

They eat in companionable silence, and Foggy watches the people walking past. He knows logically there can’t be more slaves around than last week, but it sure seems that way. There’s a nursery slave, a distracted woman in bottle green uniform pants and sweatshirt, struggling with a buggy and three small children. A man in navy livery, bright gold buttons gleaming, is trying to make his way across the park as quickly as he can without actually running, cringing in groveling apology at the shouts to slow down as he dodges through the crowd. 

A businessman sits on one of the benches, he’s eating what’s probably sushi, and passing bites to the male slave kneeling at his feet. The slave is bare chested and wearing the sort of over-stylized collar Foggy associates with movies, not real life. A group of tourists point and snap a picture.

Another businessman struts past accompanied by a slave secretary, she’s wearing a slightly too short pencil skirt, slightly too high heels, and a blouse and jacket that are cut to reveal her collar bone and her slave chip. Foggy scowls. That’s a dick move; Rosalind actually left a firm that expected her to dress Eloise to display her slave status and availability. There were probably other reasons too, this was Rosalind after all, but that had definitely been one of them. Foggy remembered her yelling on the phone to her executive recruiter for sending her to such backwards thinking, misogynistic, dinosaurs. If _Rosalind_ didn’t approve, you were sinking pretty low.

There’s group of slaves, a cluster of young men and women, who must be from Bergdorfs, Foggy’s never been inside, only knows of it from the glossy advertising in Rosalind’s financial magazines. Even Rosalind doesn’t shop there, she’s too practical to pay a ridiculous premium just for a name and fawning all-inclusive slave service. 

They’re wearing slut’s uniforms in the store’s pale blue, neckline’s cut low in a broad oval to show off their slave chips, the hemline just about long enough for public decency. Some, mostly male, are sleeveless. Most of the women are wearing belts twisted around their waists, made of braided leather threaded with blocky beads. One of the women unwinds hers to show it off to her friends. They’re not close enough for him to tell what they’re saying but he can catch snatches of conversation, hear their laughter.

Last week Foggy would have assumed they were happy, but today he can see the giveaway tics, the sharp tilt of a head as they scan their surroundings, the way they flinch when someone walks too close, a child’s loud shriek has several of them bringing their hands up to shield themselves. One of them turns his arm to display a string of bruises or bites, and their friend rubs their shoulder in sympathy.

He glances at Matt and sees he’s stopped eating and is turned towards the Bergdorf slaves, shoulders hunched up miserably, hands pressed over his ears.

It takes Foggy a moment to realize it’s not Matt’s defensive posture with arms cupped around his head. This is more like Candace’s defiant _I’m not listening to you_ pose back from when she was little and just as stubborn. And what Matt is not listening to is the Bergdorf slaves. He must have scary-good hearing to pick up what they’re saying from over here, but then even more than Foggy himself Matt won’t need to hear every word to understand.

“Matt?” He reaches out but stops just shy of taping Matt’s shoulder. Matt must pick up on his presence though because he twists round to face him.

“I can’t not hear them,” he confesses miserably.

“Oh Matt, come here.” Foggy holds his arms in offer of a hug, but is still caught off-guard when Matt crawls right into his lap and curls his skinny arms around him, fingers clutching for grip on the back of his t-shirt. Foggy lifts his knees and wraps his own arms around Matt protectively.

“Focus on me,” he coaxes, “I’m right here. I’m not going to let anybody hurt you.”

“People hurt them,” Matt protests as he presses closer. “It’s not fair.”

“No it’s not. But we can work on it,” Foggy promises, “Thurgood Marshall constructed some great arguments based on the constitution. Nobody’s really followed them up after he was shot, but we could.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” Foggy’s not going to worry about how Marshall died, six shots straight to the chest, dead before he hit the ground. That was a long time ago, nobody gets assassinated nowadays. “I mean we’d have to get some sort of other lawyering job because that does not seem likely to pay the bills but yes why not.”

Because when he looks at the Bergdorf slaves, he sees Matt and he is never going to be okay with that.

Matt whispers thank you against his neck and Foggy just holds on tighter. He can’t help the other slaves now, but he can make their own little corner of the world safe for Matt. Then, when they’re ready, they can go to work.


	31. Chapter 31

They stay in the park all afternoon, Foggy brought a book for himself and an audio book and player for Matt, but Matt just lies on his back, head propped on their bag face open to the sky. When asked he claims he’s listening to ants talking to each other,

“What do they say?” Foggy asks delighted by the touch of whimsy.

“It doesn’t translate,” Matt says seriously, “but I think it must be something like busy, busy, busy. They remind me of the nuns at the orphanage. Idle hands do the devil’s wok.”

“Only some of them,” Foggy’s a big fan of the constructive art of doing nothing, “And so do some busy hands.”

Matt actually goes to the effort of lifting his head to give the impression of looking at him, “I dare you to say that to Sister Grace.” He sounds enchanted by the idea.

“Just point her out to me buddy.”

Matt gifts him with a lighting quick smile then lets his head drop back onto its makeshift pillow. Foggy thinks he might fall asleep for a while, it’s hard to tell under the sunglasses, and it’s not like he minds either way except that he’s glad Matt’s getting to sleep if he needs it. 

It’s not really cold, but when the sun fades from its late afternoon brightness and the wind picks up so it’s perceptibly cooler and Matt shudders, sitting up a little so he can tuck his arms and legs into his body.

“Come on,” says Foggy, book-marking his place with the pencil he was using to make notes. He’s trying to get ahead on his required reading because he’s maybe a little bit terrified of college (he’s not even that smart, he just has a good memory, and in comparison to Matt his memory’s hopeless).

Matt pats his hand and looks at him anxiously like he’s aware of the worry suddenly marauding through his mind.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “Come we should get going before Mom sends out a search party.”

Matt jumps straight to his feet.

Oh for goodness’ sake, why is he so bad at this. “Hey it’s okay, that was an exaggeration, Mom wouldn’t actually do that. Although actually, if I was really late, she might. When I was running around with Brett, there were a couple of times we were late and as we came back I swear every other person we met said, boys you’re late, your moms are looking for you.”

“Brett?” asks Matt.

“Brett Mahoney, we hate him,” Foggy says as he stuffs everything back in the bag, then he looks up and sees Matt solemnly committing that to his freakily good memory. “Wait, no we don’t.”

“We don’t?” Matt’s head bobs uncertainly, stuck between nodding and shaking.

“You are so good for me,” Foggy sighs, “Brett and I argue a lot but we don’t, don’t not-like each other.” There, that’s fair. He wants Brett boiled in oil or hung, drawn and quartered, not, you know, hurt or anything.

Matt nods and Foggy decides not enquire too closely and just call it a win.

“Alright, you ready?”

“Yes Foggy.”

“Onwards.”

 

Back home, Foggy leaves Matt to actually listen to his audiobook while he goes down to the shop and allows his dad to lecture him on how to tidy up. It’s mildly teeth-gritting because he’s has been doing the jobs for years, but Dad gets perceptibly happier with each instruction and explanation and Foggy can put up with being frustrated if it’s for a good cause.

They’re having spaghetti for dinner but short thick twists of pasta instead of actual spaghetti because he and Mom decided it was a bit much to expect Matt to cope with the long thin strands that can catch you out even if you can see. Although privately Foggy thinks Matt can cope with anything there’s no reason for him to have to and Matt likes being neat, spaghetti splatters would make him miserable. 

When Mom calls them in, Foggy has a stumbling moment where he isn’t sure what to talk about, which never happens. He starts talking about college in sheer desperation and finds he’s somehow picked a subject that everybody is happy to discuss.

Dad always has an opinion on college and Foggy loyally tries not to notice how much they’re Rosalind’s opinions but through a Dad filter so they sound nicer, it’s not Dad’s fault he knows nothing about college, Foggy doesn’t know anything about college either. Mom remains convinced that Foggy is going to be the best student in the history of ever (seriously, it’s embarrassing). And Matt turns out to have unexpectedly firm views on not majoring in pre-law.

“Mr Robert told Miss Kendra only people with a lack of ambition took pre-law.”

There is nothing Foggy wants to do less than agree with Mr Robert. Rosalind has also warned against pre-law saying greater success is possible with a standard academic major. The temptation to spite them both is high, however Foggy has done his own checking and it seems something other than pre-law would be better.

He moves the subject on to appropriate majors. He’s considered English, but now he isn’t sure how the reading requirements will suit Matt who’s literally years behind.

“History could be an option,” he offers, “Good practice for case law.”

“Absolutely,” Matt agrees, “I used to think I’d study math, I was good at math. But you don’t like it – ”

Foggy winces but he really can’t claim he likes or is good at math. He’s not sure he could make himself major in math, not even for Matt.

“ – and I’m not sure it would be good practice for constructing arguments. Math is very definite.”

Now Matt’s said that Foggy can see why he likes it. Matt’s a definite sort of person. Foggy bets he has trouble arguing for things he doesn’t personally believe in.

“And history would give us lots of background for the constitution.” Matt tilts his head at him questioningly and Foggy realizes he’s asking if Foggy really meant want he said about challenging slave law.

“Yes,” he confirms quickly. “Very true. History would be very useful.”

“What about International Relations?” suggests Dad and it’s all Foggy can do not to roll his eyes. Yes, International Relations is an important field of study, but it’s not something that interests him at all. He glances across the table at Matt and sees he’s chewing in his lip in a _I am not going to say a word_ kind of way and figures Matt feels much the same.

“There’s always Philosophy,” suggests Mom, at which Matt straight up pulls a face and Foggy has to try not to giggle.

“Mom, I am not spending four years arguing about what makes a table a table.” He likes arguing but there is a limit. 

Matt nods his head and Foggy feels vindicated.

They keep talking about college and Foggy is pleased to see his parents both start to relax. He’s not sure what they were so anxious about, perhaps they were worried he was going to throw over college to become an anti-slavery activist but really he likes being comfortable too much for a life on the run, and he can’t imagine they’d actually want a cowardy custard like him anyway.

After dinner he and Dad drag the camp bed downstairs while Mom and Matt wash up. Then they settle down to watch a movie. Mom picks an action flick stating it will be easy for Matt to follow and Foggy doesn’t think to challenge this until it's started and it dawns on them all that action movies might have simple plots but a heck of a lot of that is visual, and a densely plotted but mostly talky picture would work so much better.

It does give Foggy an excuse to curl up with Matt on the couch so he can whisper what plot points there are. “It’s the blonde girl,” Matt whispers back before they’re barely five minutes in.

“How did you even know that,” he demands later when it turns out it was indeed the blonde girl. “This has only been out on DVD for a month.”

“Mr Robert liked movies. And I had to figure out what was going on or he’d get mad.”

“Sorry.” Why is he so bad at doing nice things for Matt.

“Why? You told me what was going on, and you let me sit on the couch with you.” Matt lifts Foggy’s hand up and presses it worshipfully against his cheek. Foggy tries to remember all the reasons they can’t go burn Mr Robert’s house down.

 

The camp bed squeaks, Foggy can’t believe he forgot that. The metal links squeal sadly as Matt sits on the bed and Matt freezes in place before shifting slowly under the covers, the bed protesting every move.

Foggy crawls into his own bed and tries to go to sleep but Matt is lying so deliberately still he can practically feel him vibrating in place. It’s extremely distracting. There’s no chance he can sleep.

“Oh my God, stop it,” he says finally.

Matt gasps softly. It’s an unfair command really, Matt isn’t doing anything, that’s the point.

Foggy pulls the covers back and orders, “Come here.”

Matt gasps again and the camp bed squawks frantically as he scrambles across and into Foggy’s bed. Foggy feels a little guilty thinking of it like that, but it’s not like that at all, no matter what Mom thinks. He’d never hurt Matt like that. It’s not their fault the camp bed squeaks and they’ll never get any sleep with Matt trying so hard not to move he’s disturbing the whole room. 

Besides it’s nice having Matt so close. Most of the time he’s desperately guessing what Matt’s thinking and feeling, and getting it wrong too often. With Matt curled into his side he can feel Matt’s muscles lock up when he tries rubbing his back, and the way all the tension drains out of him when he shifts his hand higher to stroke the base of his neck. 

It takes only minutes for Matt’s breaths to grow thick and soft and the hand gripping his pajama top to grow lax with sleep. All of Foggy’s own stress bleeds away then in a sudden rush that leaves him feeling utterly exhausted and pile drives him into a sleep that’s closer to unconsciousness.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Warning: Unfortunately I've finally caught up with myself, so I can't promise I can stick to posting every day from now on though I will try_

Matt wakes up dreamily slow. For a long time he fights waking because he doesn’t want to lose the fantasy of the warm body next to his holding him safe. But the harder he tries to hold on the faster the last threads of sleep unravel into nothing leaving him cold and awake.

He shifts in confusion because he is still cozy and comfortable. That’s why he was able to hold onto sleep for so long, there was no pain-filled jerk into wakefulness. His body is slack and at ease, nothing hurts, there’s no assault of angry shouts or sobbing cries, no sickly twist of blood and old sweat. There’s a steady heartbeat and soft breathing and sleep-drenched other person smells. He sniffs again, and oh that’s Foggy. Wonderful, wonderful Foggy who makes everything safe just by being there. Matt wishes he could just curl up and hide inside him and be safe for always.

Last night Matt had actually been scared when Foggy told him to stop it, because Matt was barely breathing in his effort to stay still and not make the bed creak and he didn’t know how he could stop anything. 

But that was just Matt being stupid. Of course Foggy didn’t mean anything bad. He hadn’t even ordered Matt off the creaky bed and onto the floor so he could sleep undisturbed. No, instead Foggy had let Matt sleep with him in his own bed, close and sheltered.

Foggy is wonderful and Matt will do whatever it takes to make sure Foggy keeps him.

He thinks about getting up, he wants to do something, anything, to start proving he can be useful, but Foggy is asleep and if Matt moves he might wake him up and he doesn’t want to do that, Foggy was tired last night, he fell asleep in the middle of the movie. Matt didn’t say anything and shifted so Mr Edward and Mrs Anna couldn’t tell, they might have been cross with Foggy for not paying attention. When the guns and explosions climax started, Foggy jerked awake but fortunately the plot didn’t make much sense anyway and he didn’t realize how much he’d missed.

So Matt isn’t going to wake Foggy up, not for anything. And it’s not like he minds settling his head back on Foggy’s shoulder and lying there with Foggy’s arm around him, listening to him breathing.

He closes his eyes and just _is_ , until he hears Foggy’s body start to wake up. Then, reluctantly, he stretches and fakes a yawn.

“Hmmph,” says Foggy, body flexing then freezing as he notices Matt’s presence.

“Good morning Foggy.”

“Ugh. Good morning Matt.” Foggy struggles to sit them both up. “Ugh, not that mornings are ever good.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to wake up. Waking up is no fun.”

Sadly realizing they can’t both fit on Foggy’s bed and stretch out their sleepy limbs, Matt decides Foggy is right. He slides off the bed and drops down onto the camp bed with a tortured wail of bedsprings.

“Oh my God,” says Foggy, “that bed is ridiculous.”

Temptation sets in and Matt can’t resist deliberately bouncing on the bed and is utterly thrilled with himself when the bed’s insulted yowl makes Foggy laugh out loud.

There’s a knock on the door, “Boys,” says Mrs Anna, “If you’re up you should come downstairs. Foggy your post has arrived.”

“Oooh,” Foggy jumps out of bed, “Thanks Mom. Come on Matt, you’ve got to come see.”

Foggy gives him yet more of his own clothes to wear. Matt gets dressed quickly, he’s not sure why Foggy’s so excited but he feels a sympathetic anticipation. It’s not going to be anything bad. He knows that.

“Come on Matt,” Foggy tugs him down the stairs.

“Kitchen,” calls Mrs Anna, she sounds as excited as Foggy. She’s standing by the table and, as they walk in, she pushes forward a box still faintly cool from being outside. Foggy nudges Matt’s hand towards it.

“Happy, um, something not bad,” he says, then, “Happy Friday!”

“Happy Friday?” Matt asks, puzzled by everything.

“Happy Friday. What? Friday’s a great day. What’s wrong with celebrating Happy Friday? This is our first Friday with Matt, it’s an especially happy Friday, so – presents.” He nudges Matt towards the box again.

“Presents?”

“Yep. Presents. Here, scissors,” he warns as he passes them to Matt, “you’ll need to split the packing tape.”

“Foggy,” scolds Mrs Anna.

“What? It’s Matt’s present, he gets to open it.”

Matt smiles gratefully at him and sets to work on the box. A quick check with one hand reveals a fairly standard packing box and it’s easy enough to slice through with the blade of the scissors. Carefully he peels back he cardboard flaps and after Foggy’s encouraging, “Go on,” he reaches in, feels the slick cover and riffle of pages, and pulls out a book.

He’s not sure why Foggy is making a big thing of giving him a book, but he refuses to believe Foggy is giving him a book just to laugh at his inability to read it. There must be some good reason for this. So he handles the book gently, smoothing his hands over the cover and his fingers run over a rough set of slight bumps.

That’s – strangely familiar.

He traces over the bumps with the tips of his fingers and letters suddenly slide through his mind.

“This is braille.” He’s not sure if he’s telling or asking, maybe begging.

“Yes,” says Foggy, “Yes it is,” his voice is a firework of smiles.

Matt traces the bumps yet again. He’s not reading, his fluency is shot to hell, but there’s an ‘r’ and an ‘e’, an ‘a’.

“Treasure Island,” says Foggy, “it’s supposed to help with your braille, and it’s a great story too.”

“Hmm,” says Mrs Anna.

“You bought me a book?”

“Books. Most of them aren’t that exciting though. There’s a Learn Braille Primer, you said it had been a long time since you studied braille so I thought it might come in handy. And then there’s six course books from Columbia’s reading list, those were the ones they could ship the fastest. We’ll order the rest later. Oh and three more books that looked kinda cool.”

“You bought me books?”

“Yes. Matt?”

They’re too much. The audio book was nice, but Foggy and his family could listen to it to if they wanted. These though, these are braille books. They are utterly useless to Foggy. They were bought specifically for Matt and nobody else.

“Matt?”

His legs give way and he collapses to knees, crumpling in on himself to hide his face against his legs as he starts to sob.

“Matt! Hey sssh, it’s okay. Here, let’s get your sunglasses off before you hurt yourself. Matt, c’mon buddy, please stop crying, it’s okay I promise.”

Foggy’s hauling him out of his defensive huddle and wrapping him up in his arms, and Matt wants to stop crying but his body won’t listen and everything is too much. He gasps like he’s been running for miles and clings to Foggy. He doesn’t… he can’t… everything hurts and he doesn’t even understand why. But Foggy is there and he’s saying things and Matt should be listening, so he gulps down his tears and tries to pay attention.

“There we go, that's better. You’re okay, I promise. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I told you, it’s okay. Can you sit up a bit for me? Yeah there we go. You feeling a bit better?”

“Yes thank you,” Matt says stiffly as he swipes at his eyes, feeling utterly stupid. 

“Good. You feel like getting up off the floor? Because I’m going to be mean and insist you eat breakfast before you sink into a reading coma.”

“I’m fine,” he says, feeling anything but. He feels like something inside him has cracked wide open and he has no idea what to do. But Foggy’s hand is under his elbow urging him to his feet so he obediently stands up and Foggy helps him find a chair.

“So what do you want for breakfast?”

“Eggs?” he suggests, but with his hands stroking the spines of the books still inside the box, he’s not really bothered. If somebody had told him one day the prospect of real food would have less than his full attention, he’d have called them crazy.

“Oh dear,” says Mrs Anna, “He’s just like you my treasure. We’ll get no sense out of him for days.”

Matt flinches and with an effort drags his mind away from the amazing books and attempts to look like he’s paying proper attention like a respectable slave.

“Don’t even try it,” says Foggy, “Just eat a bit of breakfast, and then we’ll get you set up in the living room.”

Matt eats the toast put in front of him without really tasting it, but Foggy is true to his word and helps him carry the books through to the living room. He sets a glass of water and two apples down on the coffee table.

“You all set?” Foggy checks, “I need to go help Dad in the shop so you’ll have to entertain yourself for the next few hours.”

All these books and hours of free time to read them? Matt hugs himself happily.

Foggy laughs, “And I was foolish enough to think myself indispensable.”

Alarmed, Matt sits up straighter, “Foggy, I – ”

“No, no, you have fun. I warn you though, we’ll be going for a walk after lunch and you’ll be making a start on those breathing exercises. I don’t care what sort of critical point you’ve reached.”

“Yes Foggy,” he agrees, feeling disturbingly close to tears again. The impulse to grovel at Foggy’s feet in gratitude is fierce but he fights it down because Foggy doesn’t like it when he’s on the floor. Instead, desperate for some gesture, he reaches out blindly and, when Foggy catches his hand, he links their pinkie fingers together.

“Yeah, we’re a team,” agrees Foggy, and Matt wants to wrap himself around his warmth, “You get caught up on stuff. I’ll see you later.” He nudges Matt’s hand companionably and then he’s leaving footsteps across the floor before clattering down the stairs.

That was practically an order to read the books. Shudderingly grateful, Matt curls into the couch, greedily holding the anticipation close until his pulse is no longer thrumming so loudly and he can reach for a book with a steady hand.

It takes him a while to sort the books and work out their titles because he’s lost his ability to read words and has to spell out each letter individually. He remembers this stage from when he first learned braille though, and he persists determinedly and soon there are words dancing beneath his fingertips.

He’s so caught up in the gradual flow of words merging into sentences that he completely misses the arrival of a new person until the living room door slams open and a young teenage girl is staring at him.

“Wow Foggy,” she calls, “Who’s the cutie?”


	33. Chapter 33

Let the record state that Foggy adores his baby sister. Candace is amazing and deserves nothing but the best and sometimes it scares him to think of what he’d do for her.

Unfortunately she’s also a terrible person and if she doesn’t shut the hell up Foggy is going to murder her.

“Candace, you can’t say that,” he howls miserably as he huffs up the stairs after her.

“Why not?” she demands. “He _is_ a cutie.”

Foggy follows the scatter of Candace’s belongings, picking her strappy sandals (how does she walk on those heels?) out the doorway on his way to stop Mom yelling about them. That’s one fight headed off, now he just has to stop her harassing Matt.

“So, who is the cutie?” she repeats.

He makes into the living room. Matt is sat up stiffly, his head tucked away from Candace. One arm is crossed defensively across his chest, the other is patting frantically across the coffee table and Foggy realizes he’s trying to find his sunglasses. He quickly crosses the room, snags the glasses and hands them to Matt, who quickly puts them on. He relaxes a little, and then a little more when Foggy steps in front of him.

“Candace shush, you can’t talk about Matt like that.”

“Matt huh? It’s nice to meet you Matt. I’m Candace, since my stupid brother isn’t introducing us.” Candace flicks her hair and cocks her hips, and that’s her flirting, with Matt. Foggy’s brain breaks a bit. 

“It’s very nice to meet you miss,” says Matt, still turned firmly away from her.

“You can talk to me, Matt.”

“Candycane,” Foggy starts having got his brain back into gear.

She rolls her eyes at him, “Don’t call me that, Foggy with a chance of rain.”

“Candace,” he growls.

“What?” she blinks innocently at him. “I’m just being nice. And Matt still isn’t looking at me.”

“Matt can’t look at you because he’s _blind_ ,” Foggy snaps.

“Oh, oh, why didn’t you say. Matt I’m so sorry to hear that.” She darts around Foggy and thumps her hand down on Matt’s shoulder, “I’m Candace, Foggy’s sister, it’s lovely to meet you,” she grabs for his hands.

“He heard you the first time Candace,” Foggy hauls her away. “And you can’t just grab at him like that.”

“I only wanted him to know I was there. It’s not a real introduction if I’m just a random voice.”

“I understand what you mean, but you still can’t go around just grabbing at people, particularly if they can’t see you.”

“Fine, I’m sorry. So who is Matt anyway?”

“Candace, Matt is right here.”

“And is currently pretending to be invisible,” she snarls, “but alright fine,” she glares at Matt’s bowed head, “I haven’t seen you before Matt, who the hell are you?”

And that’s when Foggy realizes his tactical error, because Matt just smiles at her, slightly off-center, and says, “I’m your brother’s slave.”

It takes Foggy a moment to recover from the smack in the face of hearing it stated like that. Candace steps back. Her eyes widen with surprise, then abruptly narrow with anger,

“So now you get have a slave on top of everything else. That’s so unfair.”

“Candy.”

“Why do you get to have a cute slave when Mom and Dad won’t even let me date?”

“Candy,” he catches her before she can slam out the room. “Candy listen to me.” He might have got through to her, but that’s when Mom walks in,

“What is all this shouting about?” she demands, and Foggy isn’t so tense he can’t enjoy the ironic way her voice escalates sharply into a shrill shout, “Candace Nelson! What have you done to your hair!”

“It’s the very latest fashion,” Candace tosses her blue hair out over her shoulders, “What are you shouting at me for when Foggy has a slave?”

“Your brother discussed it with us in a rational manner.”

“Well of course he did, because Foggy is just fucking perfect.” Candace spins on her toes and storms from the room.

“Don’t you walk away from me young lady,” Mom stalks after her and Foggy can hear the argument pick up again on the stairs.

He sighs, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” says Matt.

“No it is not.” Foggy sits down on the couch beside him. Matt’s pulled his arms and legs in close and his shoulders have hunched up again. “Candace is just really mad at everything. It has nothing to do with you.” He edges closer to Matt so their shoulders bump together and is relieved when Matt lets himself slump against him.

“So, uh,” Matt turns his head nervously, “what had she done to her hair?”

“It’s blue. Not all blue though. It sort of fades in about halfway and is bright-blue by the end. Don’t tell Mom I said this but actually I think it looks really pretty.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Of course Candace is always pretty anyway,” that’s an article of faith, “but she got the Nelson hair which is not a particularly anything color, sort of a blondy-brown. The blue is a bit startling but it’s very effective. And she’s fourteen. Fourteen year olds are supposed to things like that. At least she didn’t get a nose ring because Dad really would have blown his top.”

Matt nods slowly, then, “They’re still shouting.”

“I know. They shout a lot. Ignore them. That’s what I do. In fact if you’re okay, I’m going back down to the shop. Candace is going to be in a foul mood when they’re finished and Mom might hide it well but she’s not much better.”

“I’m fine.” Matt doesn’t sound very certain about that and Foggy sighs.

“Don’t worry. They’ll be back to normal by lunch time. Although the sniping will probably start up again the afternoon. Do you like your books?”

Matt lights back up, he’s practically glowing, “I love my books.” He picks up the volume at his feet, fingers caressing the cover.

“Great.” Foggy wants to hug him he looks so happy, but unfortunately duty calls, “I’m going to go break the news to Dad gently and see if we can avoid any more shouting. We should be okay, Candace is his little princess, she could set him on fire and he’d forgive her. I’ll see you later.”

 

Matt attempts to read his book but Mrs Anna and Miss Candace are still shouting making his back prickle with anxiety.

“It’s not fair, Mom. Why does Foggy get to have a slave?”

“We are not discussing this Candace, we are discussing your hair. Your father will be furious.”

“Well boo-hoo-hoo. It’s my hair I can dye it I want to.”

“I don’t understand why you want to make yourself look ugly.”

“I do not look ugly,” Miss Candace’s voice shrieks with outraged fury.

Mrs Anna sighs wearily, “You’re not listening to me, Candace.”

They’re both unhappy. Matt doesn’t like it but he doesn’t know how to fix it. The shouting gets louder and louder, then a door slams. Mrs Anna stays in the kitchen breathing hard, Miss Candace crashes into the living room.

“Why is everything I do wrong, it’s so unfair,” she stops in place, “Oh, hey Matt, sorry about that.” She straightens and twitches her dress into place, her voice sounds calm but Matt can still hear the anger pounding through her body.

He smiles nervously at her and makes sure his glasses are in place. She’s Foggy’s sister and Foggy loves her, he wants her to like him, “Hello Miss Candace.”

“Well it’s nice that somebody’s pleased to see me. Why does Foggy get everything?”

“Miss?”

“God, do you call my brother Mr Foggy, that is so weird.”

Matt flushes, because he doesn’t and he should, but Foggy is Foggy. He twists uneasily in place.

“I don’t see why Foggy gets you, when my stupid parents don’t even want me kiss a boy.”

“No, no,” Matt protests, “Foggy doesn’t kiss me.”

Candace jerks back, “What? That’s just mean. Why doesn’t he kiss you, you should be kissed, I’ll kiss you.” She walks towards him.

Panic spikes through Matt’s chest, “No.” He yanks his legs up, hugging them tight to his chest.

“Oh come on, Foggy won’t kiss you, and the parents won’t let me kiss anyone. It’s perfect.”

“No.” Matt didn’t dare say no to Miss Kendra, he’s not making that mistake again.

“It’s not fair Foggy keeping you all to himself. I deserve to have fun too.”

“No.”

“And,” she turns sly, “if you don’t let me kiss you, I’ll tell Foggy you tried to kiss me. He’ll be so mad.”

Matt’s legs start to drop of their own accord.

“That’s better.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. Miss Candace slings herself across his lap, legs straddling his hips. Her fingers dig into his hair, pulling head up. Her mouth pushed against his, her tongue stabbing at his mouth.

There are footsteps on the stairs. Matt tries to ease her away from him but she just wriggles closer and he can’t risk pushing too hard.

The door clicks open and Miss Candace grunts triumphantly, as Mr Edward steps into the room.

“Get your filthy hands off my daughter!”


	34. Chapter 34

Matt’s mind is frozen in helpless terror. It’s happening again, it’s all happening again.

“Get away from her,” yells Mr Robert and next will come the crack of his belt. No, no, no, Matt can’t take that again; he shoves Miss Kendra away, staggers to his feet, dodges Mr Robert, and runs for the door.

Someone catches his arm before he can reach the stairs, “Matt wait.”

Elbow to the gut, back of the hand to the nose. Matt hears the oof of breath and gush of blood and yanks free from the suddenly weak grip. Before he can get away a big hand seizes the collar of his sweater.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” the man shakes him and Matt whines high in his throat. Mr Robert is so, so mad.

“Leave him alone,” demands the new voice that Matt doesn’t remember. Hands pull him away from the angry man and a body forces its way between them.

“Fuck’s sake Foggy, he was molesting your sister and he just broke your nose.”

Foggy. Matt’s head turns and he thinks that is Foggy in front of him. Tentatively he reaches out and wraps his hand around maybe-Foggy’s arm. It’s solid in his grip. Real. Foggy is real. A grateful sob escapes him. He thought he’d imagined him up, dreamed him out of the air.

But no, Foggy is real. He knows this.

Matt whimpers in confusion, why is Foggy here with Mr Robert. Foggy can’t be here, Mr Robert will hurt him. 

“Leave Matt alone,” Foggy demands. 

“Foggy you’re bleeding,” that’s Mrs Anna, what’s she doing here.

“I don’t care. It’s not Matt’s fault. Why aren’t you yelling at Candace?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” says Miss Kendra.

“Of course you didn’t, sweetheart,” says Mr Robert. “Foggy – ”

“No, you don’t touch Matt.” Foggy backs up into Matt, pushing him away from the angry words. Matt clings onto Foggy, the only solid thing in the dark vortex of howling terror consuming him.

 

Foggy is frantic. His nose stings, his eyes are watering and there’s hot blood dribbling over his lip. His dad’s gone crazy and if Candace doesn’t stop looking so smug about it, he’s going to push her down the stairs.

The only good thing is he managed to grab Matt before he fled out onto the street. Matt’s violent fright has shriveled away and he’s hanging onto Foggy, shaking and making whimpery little sobs like a terrified puppy. It’s turning Foggy homicidal.

He pushes Matt back another couple of steps.

“Calm down. This is not Matt’s fault.”

“Of course it’s the little – ”

“Dad! Shut the fuck up!” 

“Franklin Nelson,” his Dad roars back, and oh God, he can’t believe he just told his dad to shut up. He’s starting to shake as badly as Matt. He thinks, distantly, that he might be really fucking furious.

“I said shut up,” he yells. “Matt, come on, we’re leaving.”

“Get back here,” his dad orders.

“No!” He shoves Matt towards the stairs, but then glances back because he’s suddenly worried he’s too angry to ever return.

“Go,” says Mom, “go now. Give your father chance to calm down.”

That Mom thinks it’s a good idea gives them the little bit of reassurance he needs. He wraps his arm around Matt, urging him down the stairs. Matt’s still so out of it he’s not sure how much Matt knows about what’s going on, but he responds to the pressure and allows Foggy to hurry him down the stairs.

Safely out onto the sidewalk, Foggy stops, because where do go? They can’t go back, Dad is so very mad – not that he cares at this particular moment. Right now Foggy is so angry he’s more scared of himself than Dad.

Nobody gets to hurt Matt. He doesn’t care they’re family; Matt is out of his mind with fear and that is not okay. It’s just not. He can’t believe his dad. And Candace, how dare she. He wants to race back upstairs and scream until they understand what they’ve done.

But he’s too angry, and he can’t abandon Matt in the street. How is Matt supposed to know that things will be okay once Dad’s calmed down and Candace has fessed up about this all being her idea. 

It will take a lot of shouting to get to that point and some of it’s been a long time coming. Foggy’s hungry for the chance to roll up his sleeves and wade in, but he can’t make Matt listen to them unloading all the pent up anger they’ve been storing away. 

Matt’s already chalk white. He’s stopped shaking but Foggy doesn’t think that’s a good thing, it’s like hypothermia, he’s too hurt to react anymore. Foggy has to get him somewhere safe, then he can go back and yell at his family until they understand how very much this is never happening again.

“Come on Matt.” He tugs him along and Matt stumbles into a walk, his usual fluid movements a shambling mess. “Hey it’s okay,” he tries to comfort, “I’ll get everything sorted out.”

He’s not sure if Matt is even hearing him.

 

Truly blind Matt staggers along. He can’t smell anything but blood and his hearing is fading in and out like a police siren. It’s Foggy’s voice though that’s alternately too loud and too soft. He's sure about that.

 

Still Matt keeps walking as Foggy leads him along. There’s not much choice in where to go. If he can’t trust his family, there’s no way he can trust any of the other free people he knows, so he drags Matt back to Belle and her bakery. He’s still not absolutely convinced Belle likes him, but she won’t hurt Matt.

He stops outside the bakery, not wanting to drag Matt inside and not sure if he can take the glares for being a free person. Instead he simply pokes his head around the door.

“Elizabeth!”

She startles drops the package she was holding, “Uh, sorry. Matt’s owner, uh, hi.”

“Elizabeth could you ask Belle to come talk to me for minute, it’s really important.”

“Ye-es,” she wavers.

Everyone in the shop is glaring at him. Foggy ducks back outside.

“It’ll be okay,” he promises Matt. Matt doesn’t seem to hear him, apparently focused on his flexing hands.

Belle strides out of the shop as loftily imperious as a queen. “Just because you provided me with some assistance does not give you the right to – what the hell have you done to your slave?”

“I haven’t done anything to Matt,” he disclaims hastily.

“If you’re not going to tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth,” Foggy hisses, “Look my dad has kind of lost it and I need – ”

“I am not helping the two of you run away to Canada. Do you know what they would do to me if they caught me?”

“Yes they’d,” and he stops because saying ‘put you down’ to somebody as strong and elegant as Belle just seems wrong. They would though. Assisting in the escape of slaves leads to automatic enslavement with the idea being you replace the property that was lost by your actions. If you were previously a slave they’ll put you down immediately. Foggy found that out when he was checking up on anti-slavery activism as a career choice and instantly crossed it off his list, it’s far too risky for Matt. 

“It doesn’t matter anyway, we’re not running away to Canada. Why on earth would you think that. All I need is for you to look after Matt for a couple of hours.”

“Tell me what happened first?”

“It’s all a stupid misunderstanding. My sister decided to use Matt as a crash test dummy for kissing and my dad caught her.”

“Oh my God.” Belle’s cool veneer shatters.

“So you can see things are slightly awkward.”

“Slightly awkward,” Belle repeats faintly.

“So I need some place for Matt to stay.”

“He can’t stay here,” she says immediately. “If word gets out I was hiding a slave who molested his master’s daughter they’ll destroy my place to find him.”

Foggy swallows hard, “That’s not going to happen. Word isn’t going to get out, principally because nothing happened.”

“Like the fact nothing happened has ever made any difference,” she says bitterly.

“Point, but my dad isn’t like that.”

Belle folds her arms, completely unconvinced.

“And look, Dad has no idea we’re here. He doesn’t know anything about this place, and I won’t tell him. I’ll tell him I left Matt with a school friend. Nobody will know he’s with you, I swear. It won’t even be for that long. I just need to stash Matt someplace safe for a bit while I talk my dad down.”

“You think that’s even possible?”

“Well I have every intention of putting Candace in a headlock until she confesses it was all her idea.”

“And that will make a difference?”

“Yes.” It damn well better. Dad’s a tad irrational when it comes to Candace and dating but he is not taking that out on Matt.

She stares at him like she’s trying to see into his head.

“Please,” he begs.

“That’s not as satisfying as I thought it would be. Alright, I’ll look after your Matt for you.”

“Thank you.”

 

Matt shudders as Foggy pushes him away. The taste of blood is still thick in the air. It’s Foggy’s blood and it’s on his hands. Foggy’s blood is on his hands.

He hurt Foggy.

Everything inside him caves in and he surrenders to the roaring dark.


	35. Chapter 35

Back home, Foggy stops just inside the door to catch his breath before tackling the stairs. The row is still ongoing. Mom is yelling,

“I never wanted Foggy to have a slave in the first place.”

Dad shouts, “We discussed this, you agreed.”

“No. No, we did not. You and Rosalind discussed this, you and Rosalind agreed. There was no discussion with _me_ about who was going to be living in _my_ house.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” screeches Candace, her voice sends a cold shiver down Foggy’s back, it’s too high and hysterical. “You can’t even argue about me for ten minutes without making it all about Foggy. I hate you. I hate you.”

Foggy races up the stairs as a door slams and Candace starts to hurtle down. She’s crying wildly, hands tearing at her hair and she trips over her feet. Foggy has half a second to brace himself to catch her before she tumbles into him.

“Candy? Are you alright?” 

She’s sobbing too hard to answer him but she throws her arms around his neck and he manages to pull her onto her feet.

“Candy?”

“I hate you.” But she’s hiding her face against his chest and she hasn’t let go of him so he doesn’t take her too seriously.

“Come on, let’s get you back upstairs.”

“No, no, no, I never want to see them again.”

Above them the living room door opens and Mom calls,

“Candace are you alright?”

“Well she just did her level best to break her neck but we’re fine,” Foggy yells back. His temper which had cooled on the walk back – it’s hard to be mad as hell and out of breath at the same time – is heating back up. He might want to strangle his baby sister, but he can’t stand seeing her so upset either.

“Candy,” Mom gasps hurrying towards them.

“No,” Foggy wards her off with one hand, “any more of us tangled up on the stairs and we’ll all go down. C’mon Candycane.”

She’s still crying but doesn’t resist as he practically carries her up and into the living room.

“See,” says Dad, “this would have never happened without that slave of yours.”

Foggy manages to swallow down his automatic shut up, then decides, what the hell, at least it might make Dad listen for once,

“Shut up,” he snaps, “this has got absolutely nothing to do with Matt.”

“Oh right, so that wasn’t him kissing your sister?”

“That also had nothing to do with Matt. Candy?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she protests.

“We have different opinions on that, but for now why don’t you just tell us all exactly what you did?”

“We can kiss if we want to. You’re the mean one, not even kissing him when you fuck him.”

“Candace! Language!” yelps Dad, and seriously, that’s the part he has a problem with?

Foggy grits his teeth, “I am not fucking Matt because that’s disgusting. And you are going to tell us what you did, right now.” He shakes her lightly.

“Daddy,” she appeals, “I didn’t do anything.”

“Of course you didn’t sweetheart. Foggy let your sister go.”

Foggy ignores him and holds her tighter, “Candy, tell us the truth.”

“Let me go,” she demands petulantly, but she doesn’t actually pull away, “How do you even know I’m not telling the truth?”

“Because the last time the daughter of the house fucked Matt over, he ended up beaten so badly he nearly died. Probably should have died. And I honestly can’t think about it too hard because I’ll go crazy, so just take it from me that I know Matt did nothing except smile at you and hope he didn’t make you mad.” 

Foggy doesn’t need to have been there to know that. Even if Matt actually wanted to have sex, which he quite blatantly doesn’t, there is no way on earth he’d have willingly touched Candace.

“And now I think about it, Dad, I’m kind of insulted you thought I’d let someone who’d hurt Candace stay in the house. I’ve never let her anywhere near the assholes from school.”

“I didn’t say Matt hurt me,” Candace protests, “There’s nothing wrong with us kissing.”

“I know you believe that.” He tugs carefully on her hair. “Listen to me Candycane, I love you more than anything, but if you don’t tell us the truth right now, I am going to find it really hard to forgive you.”

“Oh alright fine. I asked Matt to kiss me. What’s wrong with that? That’s what he’s there for.”

Foggy curls his hand into a tight, trembling fist because he has the terrible impulse to smack the words out of her mouth. He is not going to hit his baby sister.

“You’re too mad to think straight at the moment, Candace, so I’m going to ignore that. Now tell me exactly what you said to Matt because there’s no way he was willing.”

“You make it sound bad,” she pouts.

“That’s because it is. Tell me.”

“Foggy? I don’t… Are you cross with me?” 

He closes his eyes, “What gave it away?” he demands sarcasm so thick he almost chokes on it.

“I’m sorry,” she falters, “I didn’t mean to…”

“Really? I understand you were mostly trying to get a rise out of Dad, but I’m pretty sure annoying me was in there somewhere.”

“Annoy yes, but not this.”

“Uh huh. You _used_ my friend to make me mad, and you can’t see why I might have a problem with that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to. So what did you say to Matt?”

“I told him if he didn’t let me kiss him, I’d tell you he tried to kiss me.”

Foggy twitches and deliberately turns his attention from his sister. He can’t cope with talking to her now. He wants to scream at her until he’d driven home exactly how appalling he finds her behavior and how destroyed he is to find he can’t trust his family. But that wouldn’t be fair, Candy’s a baby, it’s not her fault she doesn’t get it. When he’s more in control himself he’ll explain it to her gently, for now he turns to his dad,

“That enough for you, old man.”

“I,” Dad looks stunned, “Candace, why would you do that?”

The apologetic slump to her shoulders falls away, and Candace rounds on Dad, “Why the hell not? You bought Foggy a slave, but you’re not going to buy me one, are you? Why shouldn’t I play with Foggy’s?”

Dad’s jaw drops, he’s utterly dumbfounded. Foggy has the completely inappropriate urge to giggle. 

Mom sighs, “Candace it’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” yells Candace. “Foggy gets everything. You spend all that money so he can go to school with the smart kids, but me, you wouldn’t even let me take the exams to see if I could go for free.”

Foggy feels like he’s been punched in the chest.

“You wanted to go to my school? Like hell.” Candace is never going anywhere near that place. They are never getting their hands on his sister.

 

Matt’s drifting cold and alone when a hand on his arm jerks some sense back into him.

“Easy kid,” a man orders, “easy now, it’s okay.”

No, no nothing is okay. Matt yanks away from the touch, raising his arm ready to strike and baring his teeth.

“Come on now settle down,” the man coaxes. “Please calm down.” Matt’s not stupid enough to fall for that. He stays wary and alert, heart thundering in his chest until the threatening presence retreats.

Across the room he can hear the man shake his head, “Once they’re rejecting physical contact like that, it’s pretty much over.”

“Is there nothing you can do?” asks a woman.

“I’m sorry Belle but advanced cases of slave shock are nearly always fatal. They just can’t take anymore. Do you know what happened? He seemed fine when I examined him yesterday.”

Matt sinks into the comforting darkness. He wonders vaguely who they’re talking about but he can’t quite get up enough concern to find out. That part of him seems to be missing. He’d be concerned about it, except he can’t manage that either. He’s happy to fade away to a place where nobody can touch him and he’ll never be hurt again.

The man and woman are still talking.

“Free boy said his sister decided to kiss him and their father caught them.”

“So he’s got the two of them fighting over him. The poor little shit just has no luck at all. Would keeping him alive actually be doing him any favors?”

“I don’t know Mick, but free boy seemed to think he could resolve things.”

“Does he actually own the kid? Or is it the father?”

“I’m not certain. Didn’t you see the ownership papers?”

“As long as they just want the slave healthy again, I don’t ask questions I might not want the answers too. He seemed to care about the kid. Didn’t want him hurt.”

_Hurt_ , Matt moans, because he remembers now, he hurt Foggy. That’s the worst crime imaginable. Nobody should ever hurt Foggy. If he had the energy he’d hate himself. He hurt Foggy and Foggy’s abandoned him here. Matt deserves to be abandoned.

The darkness around him is so thick it’s getting hard to breathe and he hugs it close.

He listens to the voices, frail distant straws when compared to the steady thump of Foggy’s heartbeat, but it’s what he deserves.

“I thought he cared too. Both of them had stars in their eyes. I thought they were running to Canada together.”

“Belle! You can’t get mixed up in that stuff.”

“I know Mick. I wasn’t going to get involved. I might have sent them your way though.”

“I don’t have anything to do with that stuff either,” that’s such an often told lie that the spike in his heartbeat feels more like a shrug.

“If you say so. Now what can we do for our patient. I promised I’d look after him. I can’t face free boy without even trying.”

“You saw him. When I tried touching him he was two steps from a heart attack with the stress. He’s cold and in shock but he won’t keep the covers on so we can warm him up. Slave shock’s not fixable, Belle, you know that, they basically will themselves into dying.” The man sighed heavily, “You really trust that free boy?”

“Yes, he didn’t,” her words stumble, “Owners, they have this look like they know you’re for sale and they’re wondering if you’re worth the price. He didn’t do that. At all. Elizabeth likes him.”

“Elizabeth doesn’t like anybody.”

“She likes him.”

“Oh hell. We can try, that’s the best I can offer.”

“Done.”

“Okay, do you have an electric heater, preferably two?”

Matt hopes it works out for them. They sound really worried. He’d offer to help but the darkness is consuming him whole. He thinks again of Foggy and lets go of even the voices, falling into the void.


	36. Chapter 36

Candace elbows her way free of his grip,

“You don’t want me to go to your school either?” She glares at him, “I thought you were on my side.”

“I am, I’m always on your side. Unless, you know, you’re being mean to Matt.” That feels weird, there’s never been a limit before.

She grunts in fury and shoves at him, so Foggy catches her again, wrapping his arms tightly around.

“Candace, I’m on your side.”

“Then why?” she sobs.

Mom steps forward and strokes her hand through Candace hair,

“Little one, don’t you realize that Foggy hates his school?”

He stares, “You know about that?”

“Of course we do Franklin, we’re not idiots.”

Candace buts in, “So why do you make him go then?” Foggy gives her a quick squeeze-hug because he wants to know the answer to that too. She flashes him a smile before turning back to Mom.

“Academically it’s a brilliant school and Rosalind maneuvered so he could get a scholarship for a student with a disadvantaged background. I always thought that was a little suspect because Rosalind could well afford the fees.”

“Rosalind shouldn’t have to pay his school fees. She just wanted the best for him,” says Dad, and Foggy can actually see his mom grit her teeth.

“Be that as it may,” she says, “Foggy wasn’t happy there, and he actually asked to leave in his first year.”

Foggy stares some more because he thought his parents had completely glossed over that.

“But we told him to try and stick it out. And later when it became obvious he was never going to be happy there, Rosalind pointed out that leaving a prestigious academic school made it appear he couldn’t keep up with the level of work, which would negatively impact his future college applications.”

“Oh.” Foggy blinks a couple of times because he’d never thought of that.

His mom smiles at him, “It was true, of course, but we shouldn’t have let it stop us from taking him away from there. I am very sorry Foggy.”

“He never asked to leave again,” Dad says quietly. That’s true but – Foggy has to look down and concentrate so that none of the things he’s thinking slip out.

“He shouldn’t have had to,” Mom snaps. “All he should have had to say was he didn’t like it there.” She turns back to Candace, “Unfortunately the longer we left it the more true it became that leaving would be taken as a sign of failure. And I did hope that if it was unbearable Foggy would say something.”

Foggy blinks some more.

Candace twists in his arms so she can look at him, “Did you really not like it that much?” 

He shivers because yes, he really did not like it that much. He shrugs his shoulders, “It was okay.”

“Uh huh. It was okay but you don’t want me to go there?”

“Candy.”

She ignores him, “And that’s why you wouldn’t let me try out, Mom, because you knew how Foggy felt?”

“Yes. And because of the way they treated that poor girl last year. I suspect that’s why Foggy is so adamant you shouldn’t attend, Foggy?”

He nods, because he hadn’t liked Natalie, she was a total bitch, but what the boys had done, and then the way the school made it all her fault… If she had been Foggy’s friend he’d been advising her to call in the police so she could at least force a settlement out of the bastards, but Natalie’s parents had apparently agreed it was all their daughter’s fault, and shipped her off to Europe and the whole thing had been covered up.

“And Ethan,” he adds. “They were vicious to him.” Ethan had misfortune to not only be gay but also small and slight with a soft face that fit ‘girly’ too well. A guy could just about scrape by on gay, although ideally one should take every opportunity to demonstrate you were an equal opportunity fucker (Foggy actually got admiring glances for his little posse of younger students which made him feel sick if he thought about it too hard) but being a fuckee was simply not to be tolerated. 

Foggy had tried to get the rest of his classmates to lay off Ethan but after being called Foggy’s girlfriend a couple of times the other boy told him to fuck off and die, so Foggy let him be. Ethan eventually had a violent and public meltdown at a party that Foggy didn’t attend, Foggy ever attended the parties. Ethan was arrested for assault and criminal damage to an antique French mirror, two 19 Century Ming vases, a category C slave, and a Mazda MX5. His parents paid a very large fine for the damage, and Ethan, sentenced to a hundred hours of community service for punching two of his tormentors in the face, vanished into rehab.

He shrugs his shoulders, “Too many vicious people in one place really, like polecats in a sack.”

Mom and Candace are looking at him like he’s bleeding out all over the floor.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he disclaims hurriedly, “some of them were pretty nice once they figured out I’d give them a hand with their homework. I mean they weren’t nice in public, obviously, but they stopped ragging on me so bad, which is more or less the same thing.”

“That is not more or less the same thing,” Candace’s voice is scorching, “That is not at all the same thing. How dare they treat you like that.”

“Candy?” he asks, startled by her sudden anger.

“Mom, I’ve changed my mind. I wouldn’t go there if you paid me. If they can’t appreciate Foggy then they are not worth my time.”

Foggy hugs her. 

“I’m really sorry,” she says into his chest.

“I know.”

“I was just so mad. I didn’t mean to be, but…”

“Do you want a slave, Candace?” He has no idea what he’ll do if she says yes. 

“No, I guess not. It would be a whole other person to worry about. That’s why you are so mad, isn’t it? Because I made Dad angry with him.”

“That and the fact you kissed him without his consent.”

“But isn’t that what slaves are for?”

“That’s what a lot of the guys at my High School say that about girls.”

“But they’re all dick weasels.”

Dad says faintly, “Jesus Christ, Candace.” They both ignore him. Foggy says,

“That’s kinda my point.”

“Oh?” The pieces almost audibly click into place and he face crashes, “Oh no. But, you? You’re truly not sleeping with him?”

“No I’m not. Because I like being able to look at myself in the mirror.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“I know that Candace, but you still did it. Don’t worry, Matt will forgive you, or to be precise won’t even understand that you did something wrong. And that’s what I’m mad about.”

“I am sorry. Really truly Foggy.”

“I know you are but it’s not making me any less mad. You hurt Matt because what? I get more Christmas presents than you do.”

“But you do, always.”

“Well if you want a set of suits that don’t fit you, we can cut out the middleman and I can just pass you the ones Rosalind gives me.”

“Foggy,” says Dad and it should be weird that Dad has a whole special tone of voice that means be polite about your biological mother but Foggy’s too used to it.

“I think,” says Mom, “that Candace and I need to have a talk. And Edward, you need to talk to Foggy.”

“Mom,” Foggy protests because he’s not really angry anymore but he thinks he might be if he has to talk to Dad.

“No my treasure. You need to talk to your dad, and it’s not your job to talk to your sister about her allowance. I think though Candace should come along next time we go out to dinner with Rosalind.”

Candace face lights up in a smile before Foggy can get out exactly how much of a bad idea he thinks that is. He blinks at her,

“You want to have dinner with Rosalind?”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay,” he says blankly, “how about you go and I’ll stay home?”

“Foggy,” Dad scolds again.

“Unfortunately I don’t think that will work, treasure,” says Mom. “But look at this way, Candace should be a great diversion.”

“Yeah okay,” he agrees.

“Good. Now Candace, come with me and we’ll discuss what it is you think you’re missing out on so desperately and see if we can rejig some things. With Foggy going off to college there’ll be more shifts available at the shop.”

Candace rolls her eyes but she looks cheerful as she follows Mom out the room. She pauses at the door, then darts back to fling her arms around Foggy.

“I am really, truly sorry,” she whispers.

He hugs her back, “It’s okay,” he says, although it isn’t, not yet. It’s okay as it can be though, so that’s something.

Then Mom and Candace have gone and Foggy’s left with Dad.

“I’m sorry too,” Dad says.

Foggy takes a deep breath. He needs to get this right. He can’t just start shouting, he has to be a grown up about this,

“Dad, you don’t get to yell at Matt, okay? He’s mine. If you think he’s done something wrong then you come to me and I will deal with it. He’s mine. Do you understand?”

Dad smiles at him, which is strange because Foggy is ordering him around like he has the right to. But Dad is smiling and then he’s walking forward to wrap Foggy up in a hug.

“I love you so much son, and I’m so proud of you.”

“Dad?”

“It’s not fair and it’s not right, but Matt is yours as far as the law goes and I’m so very pleased to see you using that to protect him.”

“You shouldn’t have shouted at him,” Foggy’s voice has gone all wobbly and he sniffs to try and steady it.

“No I shouldn’t have done. I was wrong and I’m sorry and I will tell Matt the same.”

Foggy blinks because that’s good, that’s what he wanted but, “Matt was so upset. And he shouldn’t be upset.” He doesn’t know how to articulate how horrified he is that his family hurt Matt. 

“It will be okay,” says his dad, and Foggy wants to believe him but in some ways Matt is so fragile despite also being tougher than anyone Foggy’s ever met.

“I’m so scared,” he confesses, hanging on tight to his dad’s arm, “I’m so scared I’m going to mess up and hurt Matt.”

His dad sighs, “I hate to tell you this Foggy but you probably will mess up, though hopefully not as much as your old man. The important thing is to learn from your mistakes and keep trying. And don’t lose your temper, it only leads to regret.” He rubs his hand over Foggy’s hair in apology.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I’m glad. And I’m sorry you had to go to that wretched school. Your mother, Rosalind, she talking about suing for custody. She said I couldn’t deny your right to best education available. She was your biological mother, she had money, and she wanted you to go to a good school. We’d have lost. So I agreed. And as time passed, I guess I wanted to believe you were okay so I didn’t think about it too hard.”

“Oh.” He stares at his Dad and his earnest sadness. “I, I’m not sure what to do with that. I might have to think about it for a while.”

“Take all the time you need, I’m not going anywhere.”

Foggy nods and moves on, “I’m completely furious with Candace,” he confesses.

“I know you are son. I’m not happy with her myself. You made her think though. And as she sees Matt around, I think she’ll start to understand.”

“I hope so.”

“She will. Your mom is on the case.”

Foggy smiles as they walk towards the door, “That is so true. And Mom is never defeated.”

“Exactly. Now let’s go get some lunch.”

“Oh no,” Foggy stops in the hall, “I have to go get Matt.”

“You can have lunch first,” Dad encourages.

“Of course he can,” says Mom, popping out the kitchen. “Foggy stay for lunch you must be hungry after all that shouting. There’s no need to hurry. We’ll have a nice family lunch, and then you can go and get Matt later this afternoon. How does that sound?”


	37. Chapter 37

Foggy considers staying to lunch. He wants to oblige his parents, the argument has left them all feeling stressful and uncomfortable, but,

“No, I need to go get Matt.” 

He’d basically dropped Matt off like an unwanted parcel. It was the best he could do at the time, poor Matt had seemed one step from stroking out, it would have been cruel to force him to listen as Dad ranted how everything was his fault. And then he’d had to run back to make sure Dad didn’t storm off and start ranting to anyone else. So no, Foggy had done the very best he could, but that didn’t change the fact he’d abandoned Matt while he was upset and frightened.

“He’ll probably be happy to have some time away from this crazy family. Give him time to recover his equilibrium.” Mom comes over to loop her arm around his waist and tug him gently towards the kitchen, 

“Meanwhile we can have lunch and welcome Candace back. Then you can fetch Matt back and introduce them properly when things are less strained.”

Maybe that’s true. Matt might be better off with Belle and Elizabeth, at least for a while. Foggy is not good at this, and they understand Matt’s position in ways Foggy never will. And it’s tempting because it would be nice to relax with his family and not have to worry about what he said or how Matt was reacting to it.

But he’s worrying about Matt right this minute. And maybe Matt would prefer to stay with Belle and Elizabeth – his heart stings at the thought – but that doesn’t mean Foggy can just abandon him there. He needs to go make sure Matt knows he’s safe. And if he wants to stay with Belle and Elizabeth, well Foggy will find some way to make it happen no matter how much it hurts his heart.

“No Mom,” he says firmly, “I need to go make sure he’s okay. I think the whole thing brought back some awful memories and I don’t want him sitting there frightened he’s going to be punished.”

“But,” Mom protests.

“Leave the boy be,” says Dad. “If he needs to check on Matt, he needs to check on Matt. You want him to be responsible, don’t you?”

Mom sighs heavily, “Yes I do, but I was hoping that much responsibility was still a few years away.”

“Mom?”

She kisses his cheek, “Off you go then. And make sure Matt understands we’re not angry with him.”

“Thanks Mom.”

He exchanges hugs with his family, Candace whispers another quick sorry, his dad pats him on the back; and then heads back to Belle’s.

When he enters the bakery, Elizabeth abandons her customers and scoots across the shop to hover restlessly in front of him, half a step from touching him.

“You came back,” she says, peering at him like he might not actually be there.

“Of course I came back.” Her intensity is alarming him. “What’s going on? Where’s Matt?”

“Is it alright now? Is he safe?” She squints around him nervously like she’s expecting Dad to break in with an axe at any moment. It should be funny but to Elizabeth it’s a real possibility and that’s just horribly sad.

“It’s all sorted. I told Belle it would be sorted. Matt’s not been worrying himself about it has he?”

She fidgets in place, “Um not exactly, but that is not a good thing. Do you swear he is safe?”

“Yes I swear.” His temper is starting to rise again but he stamps it down, getting angry will only make things worse. He’s glad that they’re so anxious to protect Matt, even if it’s against him. “I would never put in Matt in danger. Where is Matt?”

For a moment she dithers, bouncing fretfully on her toes, then reaches a decision, “Good. Come with me.” Her hand reaches out, stutters, then surges forward to grab his arm. “Quick.”

Darting around the customers, he follows her behind the counter and into the back section around the corner and up a skinny set of crook-back stairs.

“Belle considered calling you, but in the end she decided we couldn’t risk it. We knew you’d come for him as soon as it was safe.”

“What’s happened to Matt?”

She ignores him, knocking on a door and entering immediately,

“He’s here.”

“Is it safe?” Belle demands. She steps forward to block their access to the room, behind her the doctor shifts so he stands between them and the bed in the far corner.

Foggy stares, because why is the doctor here. The room is tiny, only just big enough for the double bed standing on four battered legs, and a wardrobe with one cracked door set against the wall beside the door. A chair has been dragged up to the side of the bed to serve as a table with a bowl of water and two glasses. The whole room is oppressively hot thanks to the heater and smells of burning dust.

“Yes it’s safe,” he snaps because now he’s scared. “Where’s Matt?” he asks, although the answer is obvious. He dodges around Belle, and gets a good look at the limp huddled figure crumpled in the center of the bed. 

It must be Matt, he knows, but it still takes him a second to recognize the fragile, motionless body as his friend. He closes his eyes briefly because Matt, he looks dead already, the only surety he isn’t are his fast frantic gasps for breath that are too loud for the small room.

Swallowing hard, Foggy manages to make his mouth work, 

“Why isn’t he wearing his sunglasses?” he demands as he moves towards the bed. And okay that’s not the most rational comment, but couldn’t they see how much more relaxed Matt was when he wore his glasses.

The doctor snorts, “He’s about to die of slave shock, and that’s the part that’s worrying you.”

Fogy’s hears the word die but refuses to acknowledge it, wrapping himself tightly in denial. Matt is just fine – although possibly is in shock given he’s so pale he’s almost blue. All the hair on his arms is standing up in an effort to ward off the chill only he can feel. 

“That’s because he’s half-frozen,” he growls, “Do you people have something against blankets?”

The doctor hasn’t moved from his defensive position, so Foggy edges around him, moving quickly. He’s intending to grab the coverlet from the end of the bed, when Matt moves. It’s the tiniest move, he almost thinks he imagines it.

 

Matt stares. The shaft of light is bright and sharp, slicing through the choking darkness. It’s not the usual swirl of fire that gives shape to his world but the burning incandescence of a miniature sun. 

Foggy. 

His breath flutters in his chest at the feel of Foggy’s heart beat booming against his skin. It’s Foggy and he tastes of worry and fear.

Matt tries to move but the darkness is a crushing shroud too heavy for him shift. With a desperate effort he attempts to reach for Foggy’s hand.

 

But no, he definitely saw Matt’s fingers twitch. Foggy smiles with relief. He abandons the covers and reaches for Matt instead. Body heat is supposed to be good for things like shock, right.

“No,” the doctor tries to grab him. Foggy is worried and frantic and getting seriously tired of him.

“Go shoo,” he hisses, batting his hands away. Matt straight up _snarls_. His whole body flexes and he flips over onto his stomach.

Foggy jabs his elbow at the doctor and the man finally backs off, raising his hands and saying, “Okay, if that’s what you want. It’s your funeral, go right ahead.”

Foggy ignores him. Matt’s legs are spasming helplessly and his fingers are tearing at the bedsheets as he tries to lift himself up.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he coos. “I’m right here. Don’t fret.” He scoops up Matt’s poor twisted hand and Matt’s fingers soften out of their claws to curl gently around Foggy’s own hand.

“That’s it,” he praises, “that’s good. You can calm down. I’m here. I’m right here.” He scrambles up onto the bed beside Matt, intending to pull him close, but Matt beats him to it. With a grunt of effort he rolls right over and into Foggy, mashing their bodies together.

“There you are,” says Foggy happily. He tries to shift Matt, but Matt seems to have turned to stone and absolutely refuses to be moved. So Foggy grabs the pillow with one hand and wriggles himself down the bed until Matt is settled comfortably against him. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Matt grunts and turns his head so he can burrow his nose into the warm spot between Foggy’s neck and shoulder.

“Yowch,” says Foggy, “I’m glad you approve but your nose is cold. I’m talking pointy icicle cold here, Matt.” He runs his fingers gently through Matt’s hair and then presses his head lightly to tuck him more firmly against his warmth.

 

Foggy, Foggy, Foggy, Matt’s entire body sings with his presence.


	38. Chapter 38

Foggy settles in and talks nonsense as human warmth flows back into Matt and his body slowly grows less scary cold. 

“Feel better huh, buddy?”

“Umph,” says Matt because he’s only mostly better. His hand flops against Foggy’s chest until he manages to regain control of his rebellious muscles and get a tight grip on the collar of Foggy’s t-shirt.

“Yes, I’m still here you ridiculous person.” He pets Matt’s hair but for the moment that seems to be it as far as Matt’s concerned, so he turns his attention to the other two people in the room.

Belle and the doctor are both staring at him.

“What?”

The doctor laughs, “Never seen anything like it. He gave me a black eye for touching his shoulder, but he let you dive right into bed with him.”

Foggy narrows his eyes at the doctor, there is maybe a bruise on his cheek, “That is not a black eye, what sort of doctor are you anyway?”

Belle laughs now, startled but delighted, “He’s got you there Mick. You’re being a drama queen, and you know it.”

The doctor huffs and folds his arms. Foggy is about to launch into a speech on how very much this is not Matt’s fault, and that the doctor should have known better than to sneak up on him, when he realizes the doctor is only doing it for show and isn’t cross with Matt at all. He decides maybe he can tolerate this Dr Mick after all.

After Dr Mick’s coaxed another smile from Belle for his posturing, he lets his arms swing free,

“I am impressed,” he admits. “That deep in slave shock, I’m surprised anyone could reach him, especially his owner.”

“Told you Free boy was different,” says Belle.

He rolls his eyes at her, then walks closer to the bed. Foggy’s sure he doesn’t mean any harm but he still pulls Matt a little closer.

“Now let me check up on my patient,” Dr Mick smiles at him, real this time instead of the doctor face he wore when they were at the clinic, “It will make me feel less useless.”

“Oh no, I’m sure,” and then Foggy stumbles to a halt because Matt had been in a bad way.

“Don’t worry. It’s not crushing my doctor’s morale or anything. Acute slave shock is almost always fatal unless you’re willing to countenance extreme measures.”

Foggy squints at him suspiciously and he puts his other arm around Matt.

“Yeah you’re right. Extreme measures are bad all round. They don’t usually do any good either, although I hear a team down in Florida is having a limited success with electro-shock treatment.”

“Absolutely not,” Foggy’s outrage burns hot, only partially eased by the fact Dr Mick clearly had no intention of acting on the suggestion. Then his brain catches up with what he said before, “Wait, what do you mean, _always fatal_?”

“Slave shock, it’s a bit of a catch-all term, those who are enslaved post-adulthood are particularly prone to it. They just stop for want of a better word. Lack of motivation, intense listlessness, lack of self-care. Sometimes this leads to their deaths at the hand of their overseer, sometimes they die from starvation, a lot go die of septicemia strangely, in the more advanced cases they die where they sit without any discernable cause. 

“Although it’s most common in those newly enslaved, badly abused slaves also go down with it, usually in the most acute form. Without successful intervention, and that is rare, they die in less than a week. Sometimes they deteriorate even faster. The kid though,” he stretches out his hand but makes no attempt to touch Matt.

“He’s the worst case I’ve seen. His body was shutting down so fast it was almost like he’d told it to stop working.”

Foggy looks down at Matt, who is lying so very still, and pokes him in the arm until he provokes a sleepy sound of protest. 

“You need to be careful,” says Dr Mick. “If he went down that easy, he’ll need you to be careful with him until he’s recovered and that not going to overnight.”

“I’ll be careful,” Foggy says, but it feels hollow. He’s already not been careful enough.

“Good. Now the kid’s color is better, and he’s breathing doesn’t sound as bad but I really want to take his pulse so I can be sure his heart has settled back to normal. It was badly over-stressed, and his heart isn’t in the best shape to begin with.”

“I thought you said he was okay?” Foggy’s beginning to spiral. It’s slowly hitting him, as if his mind couldn’t take it all in at once, that Matt was so sick he nearly died. 

He wants to leap to his feet and pace around the room until he’s dizzy and then go and yell at his family for doing this to Matt. But he can’t. He already left Matt once and Matt just got sicker and sicker. He’s not leaving him again.

He forces himself to breathe deeply and stay calm. He can deal with his family later, they’re not important right now.

Dr Mick sighs, “Okay, yes. Healthy, no. He needs to build his stamina back up. He should be fine, but he needs to stop over-straining his heart. He looks much better, but I want to be sure his heart rate has come back down too.”

“Alright.”

“Good. Please try and keep him calm.” 

But even as Dr Mick reaches out, Matt begins to tense, and when he touches his wrist, Matt moans, a horrible sound like an animal stuck in a trap. Foggy smacks the doctor’s hand away before he thinks about it.

“Sorry,” he apologizes.

“No it’s fine,” Dr Mick holds his offended hand against his chest. “Between the two of you I’m going to lose all faith in myself but it’s fine.”

“Mick,” scolds Belle, “he’ll take you seriously.”

“And so he should. Okay then, Foggy, wasn’t it?”

“Yes I’m Foggy.” Much better than Mr Nelson.

“Foggy I’ll need you to take his pulse. Neck or wrist whichever you think will be easiest.”

Foggy tugs at Matt’s hand but Matt isn’t interested in releasing his grip so he maneuvers until he can tuck his fingers around Matt’s wrist. 

“You want the soft part of the wrist just above the tendons.”

Foggy presses down with tips of his fore and middle fingers and oh, there’s Matt’s pulse a strong beat against his skin. With Matt so deathly quiet it’s a solid reassurance that Matt’s still there, still fighting.

“Ready? Good. I’ll tell you when to start and stop counting. And go.”

Matt’s pulse turns out to be high but within the bounds of what Dr Mick considers acceptable. Foggy tries to surreptitiously keep his fingers over Matt’s pulse so he can keep that steady proof that Matt is still alive. He has a suspicion that means he’s probably a lot more fucked up about Matt nearly dying than he’s letting himself feel right now. He might need to go outside to throw things and scream before too much longer. Even as he thinks it he can feel his own pulse start to thunder angrily, and Matt whimpers.

“Hey it’s okay,” he soothes, “don’t worry about it. I was just being silly. I won’t go til your better. Actually it would probably do you go to throw things and scream, you can come too.”

“I have plates,” says Belle.

“What?”

“Plates, vases, all sorts of china. And I have a baseball bat.”

Foggy blinks.

“You smash things?” he asks cautiously, because that doesn’t seem like the cool elegant Belle.

She grins, only a little bit crazy, “I smash _the fuck_ out of things.”


	39. Chapter 39

Dr Mick sighs and shakes his head, muttering, “Wanton destruction.”

“Don’t pull faces,” says Belle. “You _prescribed_ ten minutes smashing things to Jaro.”

“I never said it wasn’t good for you.”

Foggy taps his fingers against Matt’s shoulder, “What do you think, buddy? You up for some smashing things?”

Matt doesn’t say anything. He can stop that any time now.

“He’ll be better soon,” says Dr Mick.

Belle rubs her face and huffs a breath, “Okay then. If everything is non-critical for the moment, I’m going to check on Elizabeth. Mick?”

“We’ll be fine.”

Belle leaves. Dr Mick carefully takes the bowl and glasses off the chair, turns it and collapses into it, staring up at the ceiling.

“Uh, you alright?” Foggy checks.

“Sometimes,” he says, still staring at the ceiling, “I want to burn the world down.”

“Oh.” Foggy thinks about Matt white and hurting, he thinks about Belle and Elizabeth and all the others, “You want some help with that?”

The sound Dr Mick makes is too rusty to be called a laugh and then they sit there in silence.

The ring of Foggy’s phone makes them both jump. Foggy scrabbles to retrieve it from his pocket.

“Mom?”

“Foggy where are you? We’re holding lunch for you and Matt.”

“You didn’t need to wait for us. And we won’t back for lunch. Matt isn’t feeling too good.”

“Oh the poor boy. Bring him home Foggy, he’ll feel better when things are sorted out.”

Foggy glances helplessly at Matt, that’s probably true in the grand scheme of things but currently it’s so not the problem. He doesn’t want to tell her though because his own temper is too near the surface to do it nicely and his mom doesn’t deserve that.

“Mom, he’s really not too good.”

“Then you should definitely bring home so we can help him feel better.”

Foggy shakes his head, not sure what to do. If he tries to explain Matt’s condition he’ll start screaming and that will upset Matt, which is not an option.

Dr Mick stands up, “May I?” he reaches for Foggy’s phone.

“Sure if you think it will help.”

He takes the phone. “Good afternoon, Mrs Nelson is it? I’m Dr Vernon. Your son’s slave is recovering from the nastiest case of slave shock I’ve seen. It will be several days before he can be moved.”

He nods his head as Mom obviously says something back.

“Yes ma’am, it is that serious.”

“That’s an interesting point of view. I suppose it could be because slaves are an intrinsically weaker form of humanity with a lower immune response and a more fragile nervous system. Or it could be slaves are just ordinary human beings permanently trapped in a position of chronic stress without the physical resources to even remotely cope with that. Just a thought ma’am.”

“No ma’am that was not offensive. I can be offensive if that helps.”

Foggy yelps and holds out his hand, “Hey, hey, gimme my phone back.”

“Well ma’am I was stuck watching the kid’s body shut down because the poor kid just couldn’t take any more. I guess my company manners are a little off.” 

He offers the phone back to Foggy and he takes it with a glare,

“You have no company manners,” he tells Dr Mick, then puts the phone to his ear. “Mom?”

“Foggy, who was that man?”

“He’s a doctor.”

“Why is there a doctor there?”

“Because Matt was so ill. He wasn’t breathing properly, and he was so cold. He’s getting better now.” Foggy takes a moment to fiercely hope that’s true. “But he was dying, Mom.”

“That’s awful. I’m so sorry it was that bad, but he’s recovering now, isn’t he? So there’s no reason you shouldn’t bring him home. We can get our own doctor to come out and see him.”

“I doubt Dr Kelly would bother. And what part of almost died are you not getting? He’s not well enough to walk.”

“Oh Foggy, my treasure, this isn’t your fault.”

“Well it sure as hell isn’t Matt’s.” He bites back everything else he wants to say. It’s not his family’s fault, he can’t blame them. Mom was wrong, it’s Foggy’s fault, he should have taken better care of Matt.

“Look Mom, I’ll give you a call after Matt wakes up, okay?”

Mom sighs, “Alright. I love you, treasure.”

“I love you too, Mom.” He clicks the phone off and holds it tightly for moment. He’s just realized he doesn’t want to go home and he has no idea what to do with that.

“You okay?” asks Dr Mick.

“Maybe.”

Dr Mick doesn’t say anything, just watches him looking sad and sorry.

“Did you mean it? When you said Matt couldn’t be moved for a few days, did you mean it?”

Dr Mick holds one hand out flat and rocks it from side to side. “Mostly. The deteriorating bio-feedback loop has been disrupted and he seems to be stabilizing. Theoretically you could move him now if you could find a couple of people to carry him and a taxi driver willing to take him. But – ”

“But?”

“But it was a vicious reaction. It will take a while before he recovers his emotional stability.”

Foggy had a sinking feeling Dr Mick meant ‘if’ he recovers his emotional stability.

“Your parents’ house, I’m sorry to say, seems likely to be a high-stress environment for him. I think he would benefit from a few days before returning. Possibly you too?”

“Yeah, possibly me too.” Under normal circumstances all he would want to do is go home and let his parents make things better. And now he doesn’t. He feels adrift, as if something vital has been cut-off.

“Obviously it’s your choice,” says Dr Mick, with a cross little twitch between his brows that Foggy’s sure is because of the fact Foggy gets to make Matt’s decisions for him. He doesn’t mind, it makes him cross too.

Dr Mick continues, “But I think it would be the best choice for both of you.”

Foggy would like to be able to ask Matt what he wanted to do. But beside from the whole unconscious thing (and you can wake up any time now Matt, _please_ ) Matt would pick the answer he thought Foggy wanted and they would go back home.

He imagines taking Matt home. He knows his dad isn’t mad anymore but is it fair to shove Matt right back into the same apartment with him. And Candace. She isn’t going to do anything like that again, but he’s sure his little sister will be buzzing around Matt both eager to apologize and desperately curious. He can’t ask Matt to cope with that until he’s had a chance to recover a bit.

“We don’t have anywhere else to go,” he tells Dr Mick. There are hotels certainly but the cost would be extortionate and that money could be used so much more usefully. Though staying with friends is right out given he can’t even trust his family. Maybe he could swing a couple of days at a hotel.

“Why not stay here?”

“We can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“This is Belle’s apartment, bed. We can’t just take up residence.”

“This is Belle’s spare room. She lets other freed slaves stay here. There aren’t many zombie communities, the one in LA is the largest, as well as general Californian freed slaves, there’s all the state’s freed farm workers and it also picks up the freed casino workers from Las Vegas. The other main two, Houston, all ex-roughnecks from the rigs and Chicago, fed mostly by Detroit, are both very cliquey. And then there’s here. 

“So we get a lot of wanderers looking for a place to work out their bond term. Since she has spare room, Belle will let them stay for a bit if they need help getting back on their feet.”

“That’s very kind of her.”

“Don’t tell her that, it will only make her grumpy.”

“And she’ll let us stay here.”

“If you ask nicely.”

Foggy can’t quite tell if that him being facetious, or if actual begging will be required. It’s still a good idea.

“So why are you here? And not in LA, if LA has the biggest zombie population?” he asks curiously, because this is his home town and Dr Mick’s accent is close but it’s not native New York.

Dr Mick laughs, “Run out of town on a rail, kid.”


	40. Chapter 40

There’s a knock on the door and Belle appears carrying sandwiches.

“Don’t expect this sort of treatment to continue,” she glares at Foggy, who holds his hands up in surrender, “but I figure you deserve a break. And Mick, it’s getting embarrassing the way you tell your patients to eat healthy while you subsist primarily on coffee.”

“Coffee and whiskey,” Dr Mick corrects as if that in some way makes it better.

Belle rolls her eyes and hands him a plate of sandwiches and chips. Foggy wriggles so he can sit up against the head of bed. Matt makes grumpy sounds until he settles down with his face smushed against Foggy’s hip. Foggy accepts his own plate with thanks and notes happily how Matt is looking better. It’s not anything he can point at in particular but Matt no longer appears to be a marble statue but has transformed back into a living body.

 

Matt feels exhausted, everything in him aches like he’s just been through one of Stick’s training sessions. He doesn’t remember Stick being there though, so that’s something. 

The sense of Foggy is all around him but instead of comfort that shoots a sharp spike of pain through him. Panicky, he listens intently, Foggy is right next to him on the bed, he sounds steady. Not like he remembers. He remembers Foggy’s heart beating high and scared, and an angry man shouting, and – Mr Robert

Mr Robert was shouting. Mr Robert was _here_.

Summoning every last bit of strength in him, he sits up in violent jerk. Flinging himself at Foggy he rolls them both off the bed. Taking their landing on his back, he quickly jacks up on his ankles and elbows, pushing to Foggy into the protected space under the bed, and coming up crouched and ready.

“Kid?” says a deep, careful voice.

He spins on his toes and brings his arms up, hands fisted.

The careful presence retreats a couple of steps, Matt grins fiercely in victory.

“Matt?” says Foggy, “Matt, what’s the matter?”

Still focused on the unknown, prepared to attack or defend, Matt slides one hand under the bed to grip Foggy’s arm in reassurance, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“Who?”

“Mr Robert.”

“Oh God,” says Foggy, “Matt he’s not here.”

Turning his head Matt scans the room and the building carefully. No, he can’t hear Mr Robert, can’t smell his cologne thick with vetiver and sandalwood.

His head drops with relief, then snaps back up when the careful presence comes closer. The man stills,

“Kid? Do you know who I am?”

“No,” then grudgingly he admits, “you’re not Mr Robert.”

“No I’m not. So do you think you can let Foggy up now?”

Matt shakes his head wildly, “Mr Robert was here. He might come back. I am not going to let him hurt Foggy.” 

“Oh Matt,” Foggy twists his arm until Matt lets him go, then grabs tightly onto Matt’s hand. “Matt, you’re confused. Mr Robert was never here.”

“Yes he was. He was here and shouting because Miss Kendra kissed me again.”

“Oh fuck,” the unknown man swears violently. “No wonder he went down so hard.”

“Yeah,” agrees Foggy, sounding very tired. He tugs at Matt’s hand, “Matt, listen to me. Mr Robert was never here and neither was Miss Kendra. It was my stupid sister who kissed you, and my idiot father who shouted at you. I’m going to kil–, I mean yell at them a lot. And then maybe some more for good measure.”

“No,” says Matt uncertainly, “it was Mr Robert and Miss Kendra.” Although was it? He’s not sure now. He thought it was, but the tongue in his mouth hadn’t tasted like Miss Kendra, and he can’t feel any sharp painful scrapes from her nails against his skin. “He shouted like Mr Robert.”

“Like I said, he was an idiot. But I swear to you Matt, it wasn’t Mr Robert.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Matt collapses down to sit on the floor. That brief surge of energy used up the last of his reserves, he wants to curl in on himself and maybe shiver a bit. “Foggy, I don’t feel so good.”

“It’s okay,” says Foggy.

“That’s because you decided to leap around like a ninja thirty seconds after recovering consciousness,” says the man, who Matt realizes, now his mind isn’t taken up with nightmare sounds of Mr Robert, is Dr Mick from the clinic. He thinks he should worry about that but he simply doesn’t have any oomph left.

“It’s okay,” says Foggy again as he scrabbles out from under the bed, “you can get back into bed and lie down. You’ll soon feel better.”

“I,” Matt fades out because talking is exhausting and Foggy’s shoulder is right there. He leans his head against it and Foggy wraps his arm around him.

“We done with the dramatics for now?” asks Dr Mick, “because if so I’d like you back in bed. Then I’ll go and see if Belle has a can of soup we can heat up. If not I’ll go down the street and get one from the grocers. You need something warm and easy to digest.”

“Come on,” says Foggy. He climbs to his feet, and Matt whimpers after him, hands reaching up pleading because Foggy shouldn’t leave. Foggy grabs one of his arms and pulls but Matt hasn’t the strength to get to his feet.

Dr Mick comes closer, “You willing to let me help kid?” 

Matt nods. 

“Good. Foggy, don’t pull on his arm you’ll wrench it with him like this. Put your hand directly under his arm and lift straight up. Make sure you bend your knees and let your legs take the strain.”

Between them they boost Matt upright but his legs don’t want to support his weight. He grabs for Foggy. Dr Mick pushes at them both, levering them over the bed and they bounce down in a flurry of limbs.

“Think you can stay out of trouble for ten minutes?”

“We’ll try,” says Foggy. “Do you think you can?”

Dr Mick laughs out loud. “I’m not saying a word, I’m not incriminating myself.” He walks across the room. “I won’t be long, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” And the door shuts behind him.

“I don’t think that actually cuts down our options all that much,” says Foggy. His hands rustle through his hair and then he turns to Matt.

“You feeling any better?” He rubs his thumb against Matt’s cheek.

Matt frowns, now he’s not distracted by everything else, he realizes Foggy doesn’t sound quite like himself. He sounds stuffed up, “You sound funny,” he accuses.

“Oh well, somebody elbowed me in the face. They didn’t actually break my nose, I don’t think, but it sure made it bleed a lot.”

Anger steam rollers through Matt and he lurches forward, intent on standing. He only doesn’t land flat on his face because Foggy grabs him swinging back into his arms.

“Stay down for goodness’ sake. Dr Mick will turn me inside out if you injure yourself on my watch.”

“He will not,” snarls Matt.

“Okay no, he probably won’t, but he’ll look at me all disappointed and that will be nearly as bad.”

Matt isn’t going to be distracted, “Who hurt you?” he demands, already planning to rend them limb from limb. Nobody hurts Foggy.

“Matt,” Foggy stops.

“Foggy,” Matt glances down at his hands, because he remembers… “Foggy?” he begs, small and scared, “was it me?”

“It was an accident.”

“I _hurt_ you.”

“It was an accident.”

He hurt Foggy. Matt turns over onto his side and draws his knees up to his chest. His body is quivering with horror but he doesn’t care, his body betrayed him and hurt Foggy, it should suffer.

“Matt. Matt, it’s okay, I promise. It was an accident. My stupid family scared you half to death. I’m not going to punish you for that.”

“I don’t care if you punish me,” Matt cries, “I should be punished. I hurt you. You should punish me. You should… you should…” but no matter who much he deserves it, the thought of Foggy hurting him like that, of losing the warm safety of his presence, undoes him completely and he starts to sob.

 

Foggy wraps his arms around Matt, but for the first time he doesn't come easily into his hold, instead Matt resists the offer of comfort, screwing up into a tighter knot.

“Sssh, come here you stubborn so and so.” He gets one arm around Matt’s middle and heaves. Matt crashes into him, a solid ball of misery, and Foggy gasps.

“Stop being ridiculous,” he scolds, “it’s my family’s fault for being idiots. You did nothing wrong. You were protecting yourself and I’m proud of you.”

Matt’s head comes up so fast he nearly smacks it into Foggy’s nose. Foggy has to bite back a joke about Matt should just go ahead and break his nose since he so obviously wants to. It’s a good joke too.

“You’re _proud_ of me.”

“Yes I am. I mean I wish you’d told my sister to fuck off,” And that’s going to be a long uncomfortable conversation when Matt’s capable of being rational again. “But right then you were defending yourself and I’m very proud of you.”

Matt considers that for a moment, then his face screws up. “I don’t understand,” he confesses forlornly.

“That’s okay, I’ll explain it you later when you’re feeling better. For now, come here and let me snuggle you.”

“I don’t understand that either,” he mutters but his body is already untwisting so he can press himself to Foggy’s side.

Foggy ignores him and just shifts so they can both be comfortable. It’s wrong he knows when Matt was so upset, but there’s a warm swell of happiness inside him at the thought that Matt wasn’t upset because he believed he’d be punished, but because he’d hurt him. It makes Foggy feel less like an overbearing owner and more like an ally.

He strokes his hand through Matt’s hair,

“Things are going to get better, I swear.”


	41. Chapter 41

When Dr Mick returns with a mug of soup, Foggy prods Matt awake to eat it. Half-asleep Matt, all fuzzy-edged and confused, is adorable, Foggy wants to squish him. He compromises by sitting beside him and curving his arm around his back and hooking his fingers into the belt loop of Matt’s jeans. Matt tucks his head into the join of their bodies and needs to be coaxed into accepting the mug.

“Come on Matt, it’s nice tasty soup. It’s smells delicious,” he sniffs pointedly.

Matt burrows in closer, “Too salty,” he whines pathetically.

“You haven’t even tried it yet, you wuss. Come on now, just a sip.”

Dr Mick, standing by the door, suggests, “You could make it an order.”

“Yeah, no,” says Foggy, too caught up in sleepy Matt to get mad like he should. “That would be a dick move.” 

“It’s for his own good.”

Okay, maybe Foggy is going to get mad after all. He turns his head to glare at Dr Mick, and finds the man watching him with bright interested eyes.

“You dick,” he says, resisting the urge to apologize for being rude to a grown up. Dr Mick isn’t a real grown up. “You don’t want me to do anything of the sort. Why are you telling me to make it an order?” 

It’s deeply reassuring to discover that Dr Mick isn’t some bastard who thinks he should be ordering Matt around for his own good (seriously, Foggy has been told to do things he hates for his own good for years. That line is never going to work on him.) But why was Dr Mick pretending to be.

“Lots of people would think you should.”

“Lots of people are dicks.”

“True.”

“So why?”

“I guess I’m the sort of guy who if he sees a miracle is always going to poke at it to see how real it is.”

That makes no sense at all, but Foggy’s distracted as Matt drags his attention back to him by tugging on his t-shirt.

“Matt?”

“I’ll drink the soup.”

“Just try a sip, then if you don’t like it, we can find you something else.” Foggy still remembers the bananas. He’s never going to make Matt eat something he really doesn’t like.

“Okay.” Matt’s face is so stoically brave that Foggy hugs him a little tighter. It is just soup though, it’s nothing special but it’s perfectly decent French onion soup – Foggy tried it so he could be sure.

The first sip is cautious, but it’s obviously not as bad as Matt feared because there’s faint smile on his face as it takes a bigger swallow. He happily drinks about most of it, then he slows down and Foggy can feel his body bracing itself before he forces some more down.

“Alright, that’s enough.” He takes the mug gently and Matt lets him pull it away. “You feel any better?”

“I don’t feel so floaty,” he offers but he doesn’t look happy, pressing his arm across his stomach.

“That’s good.” Foggy eases away, carefully unpicking the desperate grasp of Matt’s fingers. “Ssh, don’t fuss so. You’ll make yourself sick again. Here lie down.” 

Matt curls in on himself still hanging on to Foggy’s arm like a fretful toddler with his teddy bear. His eyes are already sliding closed though and Foggy carefully pulls free of his fading grip, and drags the covers over him. Matt makes an unhappy sound and Foggy has to resist the urge to kiss his crumpled forehead. Instead he strokes the skin gently until the lines on his brow soften with sleep.

He steps away, rubs his hands on his jeans, and askes roughly.

“Is burning down the world still an option?”

Dr Mick slings his arm over Foggy’s shoulders. “Come with me. I’m going to get Belle to feed you something with lots of sugar and chocolate.

“That sounds really good,” he admits and allows himself to be led downstairs.

He’s given a stool in the kitchen and a plate with a huge slab of chocolate cake dosed with cream.

“This is so unhealthy. You’re supposed to be a doctor,” he accuses weakly.

“Uh huh. Which is why I feel empowered to take drastic measures. Eat your cake.”

Foggy’s had a stressful few hours. He eats his cake.

He’s eaten half of it before he feels more like himself and up to taking an interest in his surroundings. Dr Mick has gone back to his clinic. Belle is standing by the stove doing something complicated with sugar.

She says, “Stop staring at me.” 

“Uh sorry,” Foggy hurriedly glances back at his plate.

“It’s alright, you can talk to me. I just cannot stand people silently staring at me.”

“Oh, okay. I prefer talking anyway.”

“You do surprise me,” she says, so dry for a moment he takes her seriously. “You have questions, free boy?”

“Uh.” Foggy has so many questions. He doesn’t think he can ask any of them though. He knows he doesn’t really get any of it, but he gets enough to know that demanding answers would be a massive breach of privacy. Belle shouldn’t have to strip off her skin just because he’s curious.

“So Dr Mick, he said he used to work with a big zombie community in LA?”

“Yes.” Back stiffening poker straight, she puts down her work and turns to face him. 

Foggy’s not sure what he’s said wrong for a second, then realizes, oh, of course Belle was even less likely to give away someone else’s secrets. Foggy doesn’t want secrets.

“He said these were really only two. Why are there so few?”

“There aren’t that many zombies, free boy, soon as they muster out, they’re three states away pretending they’ve never even heard of slavery.” She turns back to her baking. “You need numbers before you can stick around. One or two of you and maybe everyone else will ignore you. Three or four though, and your neighbors will start to suggest that you should be with your own kind, for your own good, of course,”

“I hate that phrase.”

“Me too, free boy. And they’ll mutter about falling property prices and deteriorating neighborhoods, and there’ll be these little accidents that the police just aren’t interested in investigating too hard.”

Foggy puts his plate down on a counter so he can clench his hands together, “I can see where this is going.”

Belle continues almost dreamily, like she’s watching a movie of the events, “Spray-painted slogans, slashed tires, smashed windows. You can try and stick it out but it’s not worth it. You know the stories of those who tried it. One of them ended up being arrested for arson when a petrol bomb burned down their shop.”

“Shit.” The temptation is to ask Belle to stop talking, but he asked, he should listen to the answer.

“Yes. Back into slavery as a menace to society, with a massive fine to pay off before they could even start earning another set of bond money. They set fire to themselves in the middle of Grand Central Station. Burned to death.”

Foggy sits up, “I heard about that. The papers said she was crazy.”

“She probably was, but they made her that way.”

“Christ.”

“The thing is, once there’s enough of you, you have a certain amount of protection from that sort of thing. For starters there are no neighbors to get offended, but the main reason is the police know there are enough people to make their lives seriously difficult if they push too hard. No police chief wants to be responsible for a riot.”

“But you still get hassled?”

“Oh yes, don’t misunderstand, they hassle us certainly. Particularly at the end of the quarter just before their arrest totals are totted up. But trying to burn us out would only cause trouble for everyone. Why do you think we’re still in Manhattan, as if it was still the beginning of the last century, when any of the outer boroughs would make more sense?”

Foggy thinks about that for a moment, “Because every time somebody tries to set up in, say, Queens, the locals drive them out.”

“Exactly, they’re particularly vicious in New York because they know we’re all here, just waiting for the chance to move someplace where we aren’t crammed into three city blocks.”

“Okay, that makes sense in a really twisted way.”

“There are probably a few individual zombies scattered about the country keeping their heads down, but the only other communities are in Chicago and Houston, because they are just too many zombies coming out from Detroit’s factories and the Texas oil rigs to be easily driven away. They actually tried to relocate the ones in Houston about five years ago. The roughnecks are a tough lot, and they objected. There were running street battles between the police and big men armed with pipe wrenches and chunks of concrete. It was a mess.”

“What happened?”

“I think the general conclusion was that it was a draw. A lot of men ended up back in slavery but the community stayed.”

“Good, I guess.” Or at least as good as could be managed. There has to be a better way.

“In fact there’s a theory that the oil companies orchestrated the whole thing because they’d just made a strike and needed more skilled labor urgently – but Mick says that wasn’t so. Just an ambitious police chief out to make a name for himself. After the name he made for himself and the mess he left for his successor to clear up, nobody’s been willing to try it again.”

“Dr Mick was there?”

“He took a coach out when the riots started because he’s the sort of idiot who runs towards the bomb blast. He stayed the whole two weeks setting bones and lying through his teeth as required. He told everyone in LA he went skiing in Aspen.”

“And they believed him?”

“Apparently so.”

“I think that’s the most ridiculous part of the entire story.”


	42. Chapter 42

Belle smiles, “Yes, I have no idea how he conned them into believing that. The man never takes vacations.”

“So why don’t you all just runaway to Canada.”

“Canada won’t take us. They don’t want to deal with an endless stream of penniless zombies. If you still have a chip when you make it across the border, they’ll take you in as a persecuted individual, pay for the surgery to remove the chip and help you get yourself sorted. If you’re in bond you’re not a slave anymore and take your chances with immigration. And immigration does not look with approval on penniless people with no education to speak of.”

“And you never wanted to run to Canada.”

“Too much risk for me. I had the opportunity of a slower but more certain route that did not involve me throwing myself at the Canadians like a beggar. With what I had saved on top of my bond money, I could probably have gone after I was freed, but they’d have never taken Elizabeth. And now I’ve I sunk everything I own into a cranky industrial stove that runs hot five times out of six, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You knew Elizabeth, uh, before?” He hoped that wasn’t prying too much. He hated dealing with the massed ranks of relatives on his mom’s side of the family who always insisted on knowing everything like they wanted to dig their fingers into his soul. 

“Yes I did,” Belle shakes her head but she doesn’t look cross, so that’s something. Nosey questions must be a hundred times worse when you have actual secrets like Belle, instead of just trying to hide the fact your classmates enjoy pushing you down the stairs when they get the chance 

“Not for long though, she wasn’t suited to my line of slavework.” She grins suddenly, “I was the one who blackmailed her half-brother out of her bond money though, so I’m sort of responsible for her now.”

“Her half-brother wasn’t a slave?”

“No,” she rocks her head from side to side, “I might as well tell you. It’s not exactly a secret. Elizabeth’s father was a very rich man who apparently fell in love with one of his female slaves – and I tell you something for nothing, free boy, if it doesn’t lead to you freeing the slave as soon as you possibly can, then it is sure as hell is not love – and that female slave was Elizabeth’s mother, which meant Elizabeth was a born slave.

“And apparently her old man loved her – please refer to my previous comment about love – so she and her mom had a nice apartment all paid for and stuff, and when her mom died, he brought her to live with him. Never did get freed though.

“So anyway because of all the old man’s fussing over her, her half-brother, the old man’s legitimate son, hated her from her head to her heels. When the old man died he sold Elizabeth before the old man was even buried.”

“He cannot possibly have had probate,” says Foggy without thinking, as if that was the part of the story to have a problem with. He was a total moron.

Belle cackles, “You are such a lawyer.”

“Sorry,” he rubs his nose sheepishly.

“At that point I’d pretty much saved up my bond money and I had an arrangement with my owner to buy myself out of their hands.”

“You can have an actual arrangement,” Foggy asks, thinking of Matt.

“Nothing formal. But you not only have to find your bond money. You also have to convince your owner to set you free. From a contract point of view they sell you to yourself. Usually it takes money, but if they like you, they can do it for free. I came to arrangement with my owner and I ended up including Elizabeth too, once I extracted the money from her half-brother.”

“Cool.”

“Of course since she’s a born slave Elizabeth will be stuck as a zombie for twelve years until she works out her bond. But at least she’s got started young.”

“That’s sort of unfairness on top of unfairness.”

Belle shrugs philosophically, “I didn’t make the rules. In a strange way it’s the abolitionists’’ fault when you get down to it. If they didn’t track slave deaths and name and shame when they find what they feel are too many of them, then owners would just shoot their psycho slaves, and the government wouldn’t have to worry about them freeing the crazies to get rid of them.”

“That’s pretty bleak,” Foggy hugs himself against the insanity of the world.

“Some of us are crazy, well we’re all a bit cracked, but some of us are dangerous crazy. We can’t help but be. Don’t forget that. You can’t save everyone, free boy.”

“Matt isn’t crazy.”

“Your Matt’s a sweetie. And also dangerous.”

“Matt is not,” and then he stops because sometimes Matt does seem like he could be dangerous. Which should be ridiculous because Matt is blind. Anyway it doesn’t matter, Matt isn’t dangerous to him, Foggy is sure of that. “Matt isn’t dangerous, he’s just really determined.”

“That too.”

Foggy decides he needs to stop delaying and be an adult and ask directly. He smiles politely and tries not to make it too obvious he’s twisting nervously on his stool, 

“Dr Mick said you might be willing to let us stay for a few days, til Matt’s feeling better?”

Belle doesn’t look surprised, of course Dr Mick must have discussed it with her before making the suggestion, 

“I’ll let you use the room for five nights, if you’ll come with me and Elizabeth when we have to re-register at the police station.”

“Of course I’ll come with you," he says instantly. "Why do you need to re-register?”

“We’re still in bond. You have to register your address with the local police station so they can monitor you and your behavior. We have to re-register every month. If you’re transient you have to go more often but they’d get bored of settled zombies trooping in every week, so it’s once a month. And they enjoy making it unpleasant. If you come with us, it should cut down on that.”

“I’ll be there, just let me know when.”

“Good.”

Foggy looks at what’s left of his cake but he doesn’t really feel hungry anymore. “I should call my mom.”

“You should go see her.”

That sounds like a bad idea, “She’s not going to be happy.”

“She’s going to be a lot less happy if you don’t. Besides you need things like clothes and toothbrushes.”

“Toothbrushes, oh my God, Matt doesn’t have a toothbrush. I didn’t even think. I am such a moron.”

“Slaves don’t often get cavities, not enough sugar, but crunching down on kibble tends to wear their teeth away. By the time they’re forty their teeth are usually shot and they’re down to slave gruel. That’s worse than kibble if you can believe it.”

Foggy can, and he’d really appreciate it if the flow of horrifying facts could slow down and let him catch his breath. He hadn’t even thought about Matt’s teeth,

“Dentist, that’s another one for my list. It just keeps getting longer. And of course it doesn’t even occur to Matt to ask for a toothbrush. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him. I have to sort clothes out at some point too. And,” he manages to stop himself, “Sorry I didn’t mean to complain.”

Belle smiles at him, “It’s no problem. It’s nice to see it being important.”

“Thank you I think.” He looks at the cake longingly. He wants to eat it but feels a bit sick at the thought. “Thank you for the cake, it was lovely, I’m just full.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now stop stalling and go talk to your mother.”

“Fine, fine.” He pushes up from the stool. “Thank you for everything.”

“You keep gushing and I’ll make you escort us to two re-registration days,” she threatens.

“Done,” he says quickly, and escapes out the room before she can make him take it back. 

 

Foggy leaves out the side door, not willing to face the bakery and all the staring. It leads out into a little alley full of over-flowing dumpsters. Obviously garbage collection is another non-priority around here.

He follows the alley around, and walking around with Matt did him some good, because he recognizes the street and easily traces his way back to his dad’s store. He avoids the store the though, because he’s not quite ready to see Dad, and makes his way directly up to the apartment.

Mom looks up and smiles as he walks in.

“Foggy, my treasure,” she comes over to hug him. He’s stiff for a moment, then collapses into her embrace,

“Mom.”

“Oh Foggy I am so sorry.”

He forces himself back together because he can’t upset Mom on top of everything else, “It’s fine,” he lies.

She must understand it’s a lie because smiles sadly at him and gently brushes his hair out of his eyes.

“Where’s Matt?”

“He’s staying with a friend. We’re both going to be staying with a friend.”

“Foggy – ”

“No. Matt was so upset. He thought Mr Robert had found him, that’s how bad Dad scared him. I can’t make him come back like it never happened.”

“Your dad is very sorry.”

“I know but that doesn’t just make it better. And I know Candy’s sorry too, but she assaulted Matt. I understand she didn’t mean it like that, but it’s still what she did. Matt shouldn’t have to sit there terrified that she’s going to do it again.”

“Treasure – ”

“No Mom.” It goes against the grain to interrupt but he can’t let her persuade him to come back. Matt deserves better. “I get that you want to put it behind us and make everything go back to normal. But not this time. Matt doesn’t have to grin and bear it. When he’s feeling better, and not before.”

“You’re awfully grown up all of a sudden.”

“That’s supposed to be a good thing, right?”

Mom shakes her head, but she says, “You better go pack up some clothes for you both.”

Foggy takes the out and dives into his bedroom to throw stuff into bags. When he comes out, his mom sighs,

“That didn’t take you very long.”

“I need to get back to Matt.”

“Who are you staying with?”

“I’m not going to tell you because they want to keep their privacy, and I know you’d turn up with a casserole no matter what you might say.”

“Probably. Oh dear.” She hugs him hard, it’s awkward with the bags he’s holding. “I’ll miss you. Come back soon.”

“I’ll see you Mom.” He hurries away, eager to get back before Matt wakes up and realizes he’s gone.

 

Matt’s eyes fly open when he hears Foggy come back. He’s carrying two heavy bags that he drops with a bang at the foot of the stairs before he climbs them tiredly.

Matt’s heart thunders in his chest. Foggy sounds so tired. He heard him earlier, talking to Belle about how much of a bother Matt was being. He should have remembered about needing a toothbrush, how stupid was he to forget that.

He’s too much of a bother for Foggy, and he can’t bear the thought of Foggy stopping bothering about him. When he hears Foggy start to trudge across the small landing, his body takes over, rolling him across and down into the protective safety of under the bed.

The door clicks open, “Matt?”

Matt attempts to stay quiet but his breathing echoes loud and desperate – and Foggy must surely hear the frantic beat of his heart – as he waits to find out what Foggy will do.

“Matt? Are you under the bed?” Foggy crouches down. “You are. Come out, it’s okay.”

Matt shakes his head and retreats deeper. He knows it’s a stupid thing to do, he hasn’t tried to hide since Stick, all it does is make owners more furious, but he can’t help himself. He can’t keep waiting for Foggy to finally get angry with him.

He waits for Foggy to reach under the bed and haul him out scared and shaking. He waits for him to tip the bed on its side and expose him. He waits for him to jab him with the sharp bristles of a broom until he crawls out to take his punishment.

He waits in vain. Foggy sighs, stands up, and walks away.

Matt’s breath starts to whoop through his lungs. Foggy _left_ him. 

That’s worse than anything. He’ll take any punishment, he doesn’t care, just so long as Foggy comes back. But he won’t this is it, Foggy’s finally had enough.

If he could move he’d drag himself out and beg Foggy not to abandon him, but he can’t, he can only lie there frozen and terrified –

– and then he hears Foggy’s feet coming back up the stairs.

He waits, faint hope curling through him despite his best efforts to squash it down. Foggy sits down on the floor and leans his back against the edge of the bed.

“Alright then, I don’t have much of a selection of books, but I hope you’ll like this one.” A book cover creaks open, pages flip, and then Foggy starts to read out loud.

Slowly the rasp in his breathing fades and Matt can hear enough to realize he recognizes the words. Foggy’s reading him Thurgood Marshall.

Matt blinks his wet eyes and eases a little closer.


	43. Chapter 43

Foggy reads steadily, desperately thankful when Matt stops making those awful wounded gasping sound and falls quiet. He has to clutch the book tightly to prevent himself constantly checking on Matt and focus so he sees the printed words and not Matt’s face, white even in the dark under the bed, his scared eyes glinting in the gloom.

Eventually his voice grows tired and he has to stop and cough and arch his back to relieve the cramp.

“Matt?” he peers under the bed.

Matt, curled up on his side, blinks back at him.

“Matt, are you coming out?”

His head shakes.

Foggy pauses, not sure what to do for the best. The last thing he wants to do is haul Matt out with force, but Matt can’t just stay under the bed. Then he thinks about it and realizes, actually, there’s no reason Matt can’t stay under the bed. Not indefinitely, obviously, but at this moment in time there is no reason Matt can’t be under the bed. He probably needs more sleep anyway. Foggy doesn’t want him sleeping on the floor but it’s not going to do anything but make him stiff and uncomfortable, which will hopefully encourage out from under the bed.

Except even to get Matt out, Foggy can’t bear thinking of him lying there achy and cramped. He pulls the pillow off the bed and pushes it under the bed together with his fleece jacket.

“Okay, you stay there til you feel better.”

Matt’s face is absolute caricature of surprise. It would be funny if it weren’t so sad. Very hesitantly Matt’s hand reaches out to pull the pillow closer. He clearly expects Foggy to snatch it back at any moment. Foggy grits his teeth and keeps his lips fixed in a smile. If you smile it comes out in your voice apparently and he doesn’t want Matt to think he’s cross.

“Yeah the pillow’s for you buddy, or you’ll get a horrible crick in your neck. And the jacket, it’s cold sleeping on the floor.”

Matt’s still looking at him like he’s a previously unsuspected lifeform but he does pull pillow and jacket closer until he can wrap his arms possessively around them. That’s not entirely what Foggy had in mind, but good enough to be going on with.

“I’ll let you do your own thing. I’m going downstairs.”

He drags himself away before he gives into the temptation of crawling under the bed with Matt. He’s not going to invade Matt’s space, no matter how much better it would make him feel.

Downstairs he follows the sound of voices out into the shop.

Belle turns from speaking to Elizabeth, “There you are.”

“Matt’s owner,” Elizabeth smiles.

He winces, “Foggy, please.”

She ducks her head obediently, “Mr Foggy.”

“That’s really not much better. I’ve heard Matt talk about the people he calls Mr. If my parents knew they’d be insisting on no titles regardless of politeness. Do you think you can try Foggy? Please.”

Elizabeth’s eyes flick to Belle for direction.

She sighs, “Elizabeth, you’re allowed friends.”

“But,” Elizabeth’s eyes go wide as she stares at Foggy, glances down at herself and then back to Belle, as if the idea of being friends with someone like Foggy is too incredible a concept for her to believe. Foggy would think it was funny if it didn’t prove how hard it was going to be to achieve anything close to friendship with Matt.

“You’re free, Elizabeth,” Belle says, “With conditions it’s true, but you’re still free. You’re just as good as he is.”

“She’s a human being,” growls Foggy, “of course she’s as good as me.”

Belle looks startled, “True, but legally speaking…”

“You can’t legislate friendship.” Foggy waves his arms around in frustration, then stops abruptly when Elizabeth flinches.

“Foggy,” she says hastily and it doesn’t really feel like a victory but he says, “Thank you,” anyway.

Belle claps her hands together, “That’s sorted then. Foggy I was just telling Elizabeth that you and Matt will be staying in the extra room for few days.”

“Is that alright with you Elizabeth?” Foggy checks.

“Of course,” Elizabeth glances at Belle, “It has nothing to do with me.”

“You live here too. We could be terrible snorers for all you know.”

“Nobody could snore worse than Aleksandr. You could hear him right through the walls. Belle told me to keep it quiet or nobody would let him rent a room with them.”

“Poor man,” says Belle, “He moved three times after leaving the extra room, and after that everybody knew and nobody would let him stay. We all live on top of one another,” she adds for Foggy’s benefit, “If you’re not sharing a room, you’re sharing a hall, and all the walls are too thin.”

“So what happened to him?” Foggy asks, appalled and fascinated.

“He bought a tent and pitched it on a roof. Works perfectly. So perfectly it’s set a bit of a trend for courting couples. Above the hair salon they’ve set up a decent-sized tent and rent it out by the night, bring your own blankets.”

Foggy’s a bit boggled by the idea, but really, “That’s weirdly romantic.”

 

In the room, Matt pulls the pillow Foggy gave him up over his ears but it doesn’t help he can still hear Foggy laughing with his friends downstairs. Matt huddles up tight under Foggy’s jacket. 

He wants Foggy back here reading to him, not laughing with other people. He knows he’s being unreasonable, Foggy should have real friends, he doesn’t need to bother with Matt at all. And how can Matt complain when he didn’t even speak to Foggy when he was here.

Groaning, he presses his face into the pillow, feeling angry and confused and mixed-up and knowing he doesn’t have a right to any of those feelings.

 

Belle brews him a cup of herbal tea and settles him at one of the tables, “Where you’ll be out our way.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do to help,” he protests.

“Can you cook?” she demands point blank.

“Uh, not really. But I’m very good at following directions.”

“Then you can sit out there safely where I don’t have to worry about you burning yourself, or my kitchen down.”

“It’s the kitchen that would be the problem, right?”

She rolls her eyes at him, “Obviously.”

So Foggy makes notes in his text book and watches Elizabeth deal with a steady flow of customers. Some of them seem more interested in meeting up to gossip than actually shopping, and they all double-take at him.

Elizabeth usually serves them all with the absolute minimum of words and interaction, but when two older women nudge each other,

“Who do you suppose that is?”

“You could ask him?”

“So could you.”

Elizabeth says clearly, “That’s Foggy, he’s staying with us for a few days.” Then she glances at Foggy to check that was okay.

Foggy knows his duty, he stands up and walks over, “Good afternoon ladies.”

They both fluster up and try to hide behind one another, before the one with the hat – it’s a small hat but it has the most spectacular bright red knitted poppy pinned to one side – snaps her shoulders into place, and, suddenly brisk, holds out her hand,

“Good afternoon sir.”

Foggy gravely shakes her hand and then her friend’s.

“So you’re really staying here?” she asks, and her eyes are fixated on his shoulder, and he realizes she’s trying to see if he has a slave chip hiding under his t-shirt. He has to clasp his hands together behind his back to stop himself rubbing the spot self-consciously.

“Yes,” he says, “Belle was kind enough to allow us to stay for a few days.”

“And you’re really free?”

“Yes I am.”

“Born free, always free,” says Elizabeth and it’s clearly a brag.

They exchange startled glances, “I quite thought Belle would rather burn her shop down than let an always-free person cross the threshold,” says the one with poppy hat.

Foggy shrugs his shoulders, “I would never presume to tell Belle what to do,” although the comfort he gained from sitting there curdles at the thought he’s elbowed his way into Belle’s life and made her uncomfortable.

The two women shuffle there feet, buy eight chocolate pastries, which Foggy is fairly sure was not their original intention, and quickly retreat.

Foot-traffic in the shop increases dramatically after that. Foggy figures everyone in the district stops by to stare at him and buy some sort of cake as an excuse.

Belle chortles when Elizabeth calls her in to report the emptying shelves.

“We should have done this months ago.”

“I’d really like to go back upstairs,” says Foggy because much more scrutiny and he’s going to crawl into his skin and never come out.

“Go, go,” says Belle, “let’s maintain an aura of mystery.”

Foggy’s a little miffed that she’s blatantly using him for advertising, and a little amused that she’s enjoying it so much. He retreats back upstairs, hoping Matt has come out of hiding.

He is disappointed.

 

With Foggy occupied downstairs, Matt had taken the opportunity to scoot out and use the bathroom. He also stretches out his muscles that seem to have forgotten how to deal with being cramped in the few days of being with Foggy.

He sits on the bed, stroking the softly fluffy coverlet and thinking. He has every intention of greeting Foggy with a smile. But as soon as he hears the tread of Foggy’s footsteps on the stairs, he’s scooted under the bed before his mind’s even made the decision.

He lies there trembling, waiting for Foggy to comment, waiting for Foggy to react.

Foggy just sighs sadly, turns around and goes back downstairs.

Matt wants to cry with frustration at himself.

 

Foggy would really like to collapse into bed, preferably with Matt so they could snuggle close and pretend the day had been less awful than it really was. But Matt’s still hiding from him, which hurts in ways he just can’t deal with right now. 

He trudges back downstairs. He cannot possibly get into bed when Matt is underneath it, the mere idea makes him feel queasy. Instead he walks out into the alley and pulls out his phone.

If he’s going to be miserable whatever he does, he might as well call Mom and let her say all the things she clearly wanted to when he picked up his stuff.


End file.
